SaltStone
by Estoma
Summary: <html><head></head>Annabel is no longer a child; Finn careens closer to the brink of madness; Panem seethes with Rebellion - With the ocean in her heart, Annabel Cresta must find the strength of cold stone to survive the storm. Odesta AU. Sequel to 'Like the Tides'. Rated M for forced prostitution and non-consensual sex. Cover image by the ever lovely April.</html>
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Welcome. If you are confused, please return to my page and read _Like the Tides_, of which _Saltstone_ is the sequel. You'll notice that the rating of _Like the Tides_ was T, while this is rated M. I intend to make my content more mature, fitting Annabel and Finn's ages, however anything explicit will be tasteful (and not PWP), or supplied as an outtake for you to read should you wish. **

**Using the prompt 'Scheherazade' from Caesar's Palace forum. **

**I take a lot of inspiration, and use many stories from Greek mythology. The stories I use are sometimes real, or my own take, or made up entirely in the familiar style. This website: www . theoi . com (remove the spaces) is a fantastic reference for this topic.**

**Finally, a very big thank you to everyone who is continuing to read, or has just joined, and to dear Stacey, my patient beta, and April, for her wonderfully beautiful cover images. **

**Cheers.**

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><p>On the north side of Bomb Bay, the Victor's Village unfurled like a wave. It was built upon a little promontory and Cayr beach stretched around the rocky cove, filled with nooks and secret places. Once, the caves were named only for the beach. Some were always dry, but others were underwater at anything but low tide. Forty-one years ago, Nelly Larn had gone missing from the Village. A wavering set of footprints, a bloodied nightdress and a pair of tarnished dog-tags glinting in the sand had led the way down to Cayr's. It took days to search all the little oyster-lined caves; the divers had to wait for low tide, and they couldn't search at night. Nelly had battled home through an arena that looked like a fairy-tale forest of pixie-rings and haunted cottages. Well, she learnt that the faeries were real, at least their teeth were, and the houses were never empty. When she won at eighteen, long blonde hair down to her backside, Snow showed her that the life of a victor was just like the stories of faeries – it had teeth. By the time they found her naked body on one of the lowest caves, fish and crabs had eaten away her eyes, her tongue, her nipples. Though she had been in the water so long that her skin had started to pull away from her bones, the coroner was pretty sure she had dug her knife down between her legs before she drowned herself. Children were warned not to go to Nelly's Caves, but the old coroner and the divers who hailed her from the hole in the cliff couldn't stop thinking of the ragged gash between her thighs.<p>

Nelly's hadn't been the only body pulled from the caves. Nearly a decade ago, a pair of young boys had left school in the afternoon and had not returned for dinner. The search began in earnest the next day. The river mouth, emptying into Bomb Bay was dredged. An enterprising peacekeeper approached Captain Fuller to borrow some of his pearl divers. The man agreed to say nothing about Fuller's dubious harvesting. For days, Nerissa was full of self-importance, proudly telling everyone that her father was going to find the missing children when everyone knew that they would be lucky to find the bodies. Drownings were not uncommon, but the bodies were usually found before they were cold – where the children could be was all that was talked about as the weeks stretched by. Eighteen days after they had been missed from their dinner table, the body of the first child was found. It happened to be one of Fuller's pearl divers who saw it, tucked up in a blind corner of one of Nelly's Caves, badly rotting. Fish had had their way and the flesh was ragged. The divers did their best but they lost little parts of the child in the water while hungry snapper and rock cod brushed about their flippers. It was another month before the second boy was found. A couple of teenagers in their father's boat were daring each other to run the dinghy up close to the sea lion colony that rested on the jutting spur of Cayr beach. They drove their little boat up close and the big bulls barked and growled while their sleek mates dove into the water. They got close enough to see a ragged shirt and some bones that were too big, too rounded to belong to fish. Sea lions weren't known to be scavengers, but hunters. Fishermen and peacekeepers went out with guns and heavy clubs to retrieve the cracked bones.

The boy's head broke the surface and he drew in a deep breath. The air smelt of salt, limestone and slowly rotting kelp. He smiled. He had no interest in real stories about real people, bones on rocks and coffins that rattled dryly. Proof took the heart from stories. With blue-green water and creamy white stone, the cave was a beautiful place. There was sun enough for the water to catch the light and paint it over the low, curving roof in a shifting, rippling pattern until it seemed the ocean was all around and he was still underwater. He smiled again and rolled onto his back to look up at the rock. With the soft shushing of the waves magnified by the low tunnel the boy felt as if he were somewhere far more special than old Nelly's Caves. There was a tingle to the air that was more than salt – a scent that spoke of times nearly lost to memory. In his grandmother's stories, Poseidon, earth-shaker, would flow up like the sea and slip into maidens' bedrooms. They said, like the ocean, he could not be sated. Sometimes he would have them there. In the morning, the smell of salt would linger on the air and their skin. But the boy preferred the stories where Poseidon snatched the girls from their beds and carried them down to the shore. White limbs and flowing hair, they did not feel the ocean's crushing cold, nor gasp for breath when they were in Poseidon's arms. The old sea-god would take his conquests to the tidal islands or the most radiant sea caves and there he would have his prize. Sometimes he remembered to return the women to the surface. Poseidon only fucked his wife, Halia, in the open ocean.

With lazy overarm strokes, the child propelled himself along the low tunnel until the limestone was inches from his nose. He giggled and stuck his tongue out, trying to lick it because he could. Abruptly, he took a deep breath and dove down, pushing off the rough, rocky wall. He swam, hard. And as he forced himself down, under an arch so low that the stone scraped and scratched at his back, he remembered the tale of Aithra and Poseidon. Last time he tried to make the dive, he had to turn around and fight his way back to the surface. He thought if he took his mind from the tightening band around his chest, he might make it. So, while her husband lay wine-sodden, the sea-god snatched away the queen and carried her to a tiny cave of coral and wave-polished shells. There, she fathered Theseus who would one day rule Athens. But as he lay between Aithra's pale thighs, he heard the sea-goddess, Halia, calling and he left her there. The mortal queen called out for her lover as the water lapped around her ankles and then her thighs. Poseidon heard her pleas, but Halia's hair swirled darkly around him and her hands were soft and gentle; he did not leave. It was a pod of sea nymphs that went to the queen. With their magic, they sensed the new babe inside her, and because they had their own children at their breasts, they took pity. They carried Aithra to shore.

With burning lungs and frantic heartbeat, the boy finished the story. He felt the blood rushing in his ears and he fought the instinct to suck in a deep breath. Hands scrabbling at the pale stone, he pushed through the arch and up to the surface. The air was sharp. It filled his lungs and brought a smile of relief to his face; his limbs trembled as the adrenaline faded from his blood. It was no vestibule he had found, like the first, but a cavern some fifteen metres long. The walls looked to ooze blood and the light was dim and red. They were covered with glistening, ruby anemones, close up until the tide swept back in. It felt good to breathe again. The child pulled himself up onto the stone floor and gazed up at the ceiling. His eyes were near the colour of the little circle of water that marked the tunnel he swam through, and just as wide. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he caught his breath. And as he lay there among the shining rubies and the whisper of the tide, Finn Odair really was beautiful. He might have climbed from his grandmother's tales of nymphs and gods and lovers – but his smile held no guile. Over the last few years, he had grown quickly, though he was still behind the other boys. Now leanly muscled, not skeletal, his shoulder blades and pelvis showed in all the right ways. His smile was still crooked. But Finn had collected scars, too. A pale, puckered line traced up the inside of his forearm and there were more on both hands. The glass had shattered as he fled from Annabel and her harpy-smile, but he did not remember that. The doctors had left him in a haze or morphine to quiet his screams and he had forgotten why he was afraid. When he had woken, he asked for Annabel.

The tide was rising. A large wave along Cayr Beach sent a surge through the tunnel and a wash of cool water crept into the cavern. Finn had warmed up on the stone and he giggled when he felt the water's cold touch along his thighs and his backside. He sat up. Delicately, he dug his fingers into the soft flesh of an anemone and tucked it away in his pocket. It left a sad smear on the limestone, pale pink. Finn didn't know if anemones had blood. The swim back was hard, but this time he knew he could do it. He had a swimmer's lean legs and strong shoulders. In the first little vestibule, there was barely room to snatch a breath. Finn pressed his lips to the limestone and giggled. He felt rough stone with his tongue before he dove again. He slipped like a sleek seal through the tunnel, the light played on the plane of his back and the dip behind his knees. He was gilded as a darting fish. Already he looked forward to showing Annabel the daring way to the cavern when she returned from the Capitol. Green eyes grew brighter than the water and he thought of what they could do there; if they picked the tide correctly, there would be time to tell a story, weaving words as he threaded seaweed into her hair.

White in the searing sun, Annabel's home perched like a lighthouse on the edge of the cove. The beach was part sand and part snapped, rough shards of limestone, but Finn's feet were summer-tough. He followed the narrow spit of stone and sand until it turned to a rough set of steps and tackled the low cliff. They were built for someone taller than he was. A few years ago, someone had hammered a metal rail into the rock but Finn scampered up easily. He looked to the low cliff to his right. Agile and game, he thought he could scramble up there, perhaps if he tied a rope to Annabel's veranda and tossed it down to the beach. But there was no point doing that; Annabel had been frightened of edges and drops since she came back from the arena. The boy faintly remembered her clinging, limpet-like, to a very different cliff side. A shadow had snapped at her heels but she was like the light and it could not touch her. Finn knew that she flew up that cliff as sure as if she wore talaria on her feet. He didn't know why she was frightened of falling when she had shown the nation she could fly. He kept to the steps anyway.

Mella was in the kitchen when Finn wandered through the open glass doors. She looked up from her wide, Sunday newspaper and smiled the way Annabel used to, before she was Reaped. Now, there was something a little too calculated about Annabel's smile. He saw it when she was on television. Sometimes when she came home, she still used the wrong combination of lips and teeth and forgot the sparkle in her eye. When she did that, Finn froze up and waited for her to remember. Usually, she did.

"Love, you're dripping on the floor. Wait there." Finn stepped lightly onto the mat and Mella returned to drape a towel around his shoulders. He rubbed it fondly against her cheek. Mella shook her head but her smile persisted. "You dry off. Does someone know where you are?"

"I told Jarrett."

"Good, good. Well, once you're dry, you can have something to eat. Bet you forgot about lunch, huh, love?"

"When's Annabel coming back?" As he spoke, he ran his words together; he asked the question a lot. Sometimes, he forgot he had and he jogged across Bombay to ask it again. Finn drew the towel over his head and rubbed his hair. Heavy, damp strands fell into his eyes and he shook them from his face. He still screamed when he saw scissors flash in front of his face.

"She called this morning. I was going to tell you. She'll be home soon, really soon," Mella was pleased to answer. Her daughter had already been in the Capitol for two months, and before that she was only home for three weeks. Her phone calls were few. Last time, she complained that the Capitol was worse than usual when Leda was so busy and Dirk was going to leave for District 2 early. Mella had nodded and pretended she knew the people who filled her daughter's Capitol-life. Finn let the towel drop. He turned quickly and the mat slipped on the polished boards. Mella stifled a chuckle as he grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. Quickly, she said, "Not that soon! You can have something to eat. I mean that she'll be back before the Reaping next week."

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><p>Havar's beach glittered in the summer sun. From a distance, it looked as if the beach was strewn with diamonds. It was the first thing the eager Capitol tourists saw when they stepped from their luxury trains, but they never got close enough to the sand to see that the diamonds were just bits of broken bottle left by students at the nearby university. They quickly fled to the air-conditioned hotels on the north side of Bombay and they never cut their feet upon the diamond-glass.<p>

Finn jogged along the low tide at Havar's beach, an easy lope. He was used to going between the Shoreline and the Victor's Village, and his feet well remembered the way. Often, he started out for school and found his way to Annabel's house, instead. He stopped to pick up a piece of brown-green glass but the edges were still sharp. He dropped it. Finn preferred when the ocean had worn away the edges and turned the glass opaque. He had given Annabel a piece, once, but she sent it back with a letter that his mother read to him. He added the tear-smudged page to the little box of treasures he kept under his bed.

The platform at the station was empty. When a train of tourists from the Capitol or the rich northern districts was due, it was bustling with attendants and a line of sleek cars waited by the side of the road. A plastic bag tumbled past and the boy followed it with his eye. _The most dangerous creature in the ocean_, read the posters at the back of his classroom, showing a gently floating plastic bag. Last year, Mr Farrass who taught maths and science had gathered the children together and took a bone-saw to a dead turtle. The smell was ripe. He pulled away the shell and cut open the creature's belly to show the children where their rubbish usually ended up. _Poor bugger had so much plastic in him he couldn't dive. Starved to death on the surface. Remember that. _Finn scrambled onto the platform and pounced on the plastic bag. He stuffed it into the bin.

The sand was soft and dry at the high tide line, and Finn settled down to wait. Behind him he heard the low murmur of the waves, and ahead was the click and rumble of the older trains that ran in the district or hauled away great cold cars of lobster and scallop and fish that had been swimming that morning. The platform for the elite was starkly bare. So the boy locked his arms around his knees and rested his chin upon them. His eyes stayed alert. Waves dragged at the sand and the sun prickled uncomfortably on the back of his neck. Mella had given him an old shirt from her husband's cupboard, saying he shouldn't run around in just his shorts when the sun had climbed to midday. He turned the collar up. Often, Finn forgot to wear the clothes he should. Sometimes, he decided he did not like the feel of rough cloth on his skin. Once, he found his mother's silk dressing gown, a gift, and liked the feel of the soft fabric so much that he wore it.

Slowly, the sun dipped to the west. Finn grew stiff where he sat and the platform was empty but for a hopeful gull that perched on the edge of the bin. Soon, it grew tired of waiting and took to the sky again. It skimmed down to the water in a wide arc and turned into the sunset. Finn watched it. In a sky of orange and pink and dusky red, it was a silver stroke by a hasty artist. He watched the gull until it was lost in the clouds. He waited.

The impatient horn had no place by the beach and the dusky clouds. It shattered the still air like the glass bottles. Finn shook his head and scrambled to his feet; he felt a little cold. The horn sounded again – a hand pressed flat to the wheel. Finn scampered up the soft sand and slipped under the barrier by the road. Jarrett's ute was idling at the curb.

"In you get," Jarrett said. Finn climbed in and scattered sand across the seat. Jarrett shrugged. He was clean shaven for summer, and not working today; he wore a faded pair of khakis and an open shift. Finn never liked his uniform. For a long time, he didn't like Jarrett, either. He did not like the man's faint accent, or the thick beard he grew in winter. Finn hated to see Jarrett's white jacket hanging by the door before he went to bed, and he hated it more when it was still there in the morning. Once, Finn had taken the jacket and stuffed it down the toilet, shivering and giggling by turn. Jarrett had cuffed him about the ear and said no more about it. Finn had raced down to the beach with tears in his eyes and a spreading bruise across his face and Rhyne had been sent to fetch him. Finn cried angrily and Rhyne muttered, _Can't believe Mum would fuck a peacekeeper_.

"You were waiting for Cresta, huh?"

"She didn't come." Finn pouted and Jarrett chuckled. _It's the damndest thing, _he thought_, that kid can be throwing a tantrum and he still looks like a bloody faerie. Good thing, I guess. _

"There's no trains scheduled until Friday morning." Jarrett pulled out onto the street and drove along next to the beach. He'd taught Rhyne to drive a few years ago, and sat Finn on his lap to steer when he was just small enough. He'd always kept his hands over Finn's. "Sorry. Reckon she'll be on that one."

"But she said she was coming soon!" Finn's voice rose in pitch and his eyes grew over-bright. He twisted his seatbelt and Jarrett reached over to brush his hand away. Rhyne had decided that he didn't mind his mother fucking a peacekeeper, after all, when he had an apprenticeship to go to, and enough money for a second-hand car to drive down to the docks.

"Must have meant Friday. Want to tell me what you did today? It was nice out," Jarrett said quickly. Finn's lip quivered for a moment before he remembered his excitement at the ruby-cavern and the narrow tunnel at low tide. Words tumbled over each other and Jarrett's face relaxed back into a smile. Once, Finn wouldn't have considered telling him that, but Sedna made her son see that Jarrett was more than just the reason that three nights a week he could not creep into her bed and hide from the dark. When Finn understood that Jarrett's jacket and boots in the hall meant a roof that did not leak and a quiet word with Mr Farrass about the time he missed class to wait for Annabel at the station, he didn't mind so much.

So Finn settled back in his seat and Jarrett swung the car up along the Shoreline. He thought about how quickly the cars rusted in District 4's salt-air, and how he'd have to get a receipt from the garage to pass onto the barracks. _At least_, he thought, _you don't need chains to drive six months of the year_. _Rather be stuck behind a boat and trailer than a snow plough. _Finn felt his chest burn as he recounted the narrow tunnel but he missed Jarrett's worried-sharp glance, his mind full of Aithra and Poseidon and the nymphs. He told Jarrett the story, but this time he added a sea cave filled with blood and precious gems.

"Bloody hell, quite the story-teller! Don't know where you get them all from." Jarrett laughed, but it did not last. "Can I tell you a story?"

"Okay." Finn sat up a little straighter. They'd reached his house and Jarrett slid the handbrake into place, but he didn't reach for the door. He took off his seatbelt and rested his hands on the wheel. Finn wondered why he was gripping it so tight when they were not moving.

"This is a really true one. Happened to me, alright? When I was growing up." Jarrett looked through the windscreen at the sunset. His gaze was unfocused. "Couple of kids were exploring around the Salt Caves – they call them that because the rocks are all white, like salt crystals – and it was the middle of winter. Snow everywhere, and deep, too. The little buggers slipped down a hole that'd been all covered up. The rock was all covered in snow, too hard to climb out. They died down there and we didn't find them 'til spring – Fuck, you're not listening anyway, are you?"

Finn turned in his seat and looked at Jarrett. He had been captured by the thought of caves filled with salt crystals, and his imagination had taken him far away from the bench seat and the ute parked outside his house. Jarrett sighed.

"Just don't play around Nelly's Caves. Alright? You know kids have died there before. Just keep away from them."

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><p>Friday arrived and the last skeins of a bloody sunset made a silhouette of the boy and the empty platform. Mostly clear, the sky had made a fine canvas for Apollo's plunge behind the seas. At the end of July, the air was summer-warm; only now as the sun set was the temperature bearable. It wrapped around the boy like a cloak. He wore a shirt that had belonged to someone with much broader shoulder than he, and it hung loose. The dusk wind made a sail of it, but he did not notice. In summer, twilight stretched on for hours, fading slowly from dusky pink to purple. Soon, the stars would be out and they would give the boy something to look at, but for now he stared at the point where the train tracks curved and were lost from sight.<p>

They stayed resolutely empty and there was something achingly lonely about the quiet station, the beach that no longer glittered with diamonds, and the quiet boy. He had missed school that day, for Annabel's train was due. Jarrett had told him it was to come in the evening, but Finn wanted to make sure he did not miss it. All day he had waited. After the sunrise faded away, he stretched back and waited for the sun's rays to warm him. At midday, he lay in the shade of the sheltered platform. He picked his way down to the beach and swam, walking backwards out into the water so he could keep his eye out for a train. Rhyne had driven past on his way home and left his car idling on the curb around dinnertime, but Finn said he wanted to wait. Rhyne had driven away. For half an hour, he had a gull for company.

Now, he heard the footsteps. They were heavy and measured and without looking around, Finn knew their owner was tall. Barra was not just tall and strong, but knew it very well. While he realised that did not give him the right to do as he did, he also knew that there was a very good chance he would get away with it. Barra had grown more than Finn had over the last few years, and he had been big to start with – big and cruel. His hair was the same shade of bronze as Finn's, and his grey eyes could be full of smiles and laughter, but usually at the expense of another. He might have been good looking, but his lip was often curled in an arrogant sneer and his brows were lowered.

"What the fuck you doing?" He stopped, close enough that Finn had to crane his neck to see his face. When Finn scrambled to his feet, he still had to look up at the older boy. The sky was darkening, now. It did not cloak the child in dusky pink. Barra laughed a little and feinted forwards. He laughed more when Finn stumbled. The single gold tag of a volunteer in his final year clicked on its chain. Down on the beach, a gull cried a warning and its mate took to the air. A rangy, patched mongrel closed its jaws too late. Its muzzle had the pinched look of a stray, but its ribs did not show through its rough coat; it had a gold tag on its collar. After a moment's regret, it nosed among the debris left at the high tide line for a rotting fish to roll in.

Finn ran. He slipped under the low barrier by the beach and Barra hurtled over it. Sand flew from their heels. Barra had always been good in a sprint; he was too heavy for endurance running. At the _Docks, _they trained him to sprint from the tribute plate towards the golden horn, and he never false started. The dog raised its nose from the rotting seaweed and watched the two boys race down the sand. It waved its tail slowly. There was nobody else on the beach at this hour. Finn's panting breath drowned out the sound of the waves in his ears and he ran. He ran without much hope of getting away, but he did not stop. Tears came to the younger boy's eyes. They went down in a tangle of limbs, gritty sand and broken glass flying. For a moment, they struggled, but it was an easy contest. Barra was panting with exhilaration, and Finn was sobbing.

Even in summer, the water was never warm. The cold shock of it on Finn's face and neck gave a new wave of strength to his limbs. Barra contained it and laughed. It seemed each time Finn struggled, the older boy got a little stronger. He was excited. His erection jutted up in his loose shorts. Underwater, it was black and grey with swirling sand and stinging salt. Finn thrashed, as frantic as any fish on a hook, and his lungs burnt as they had when he swam into the cavern and its red, ruddy light. Now, different colours swam before his vision. Barra's hand wrapped almost all the way around his neck.

Finn gasped at the warm air and it seared his lungs and his throat. His eyes were streaming. Barra laughed, but Finn could not hear it over his thundering heart. Then, the water closed over him again. After another thirty seconds, Barra hauled him up and let him snatch a few breaths. Finn did not struggle, this time. He hung, his weight supported by the water, and by Barra's hold around his neck. Barra reached down and ran his hand through Finn's hair.

"I always like this game," he murmured. Without warning, he forced the boy underwater again. And this time, it stretched on. Barra counted off in his head and had to use two hands to hold the child's head down. Each scratch on his forearms, each frantic kick made him hold on harder and his smile was all gritted teeth and snarling lips. His groin throbbed. Finn fought like a demon. Six years ago, Barra had been sent up to the career academy after a peacekeeper caught him holding another child's head in a rock pool. His parents thought that the controlled violence of the _Docks _would be good for him, and it was, in Barra's opinion – it taught him to do what he liked better. And he liked this. So he counted off, deliberately slowing his seconds. _One cornucopia, two cornucopia…three cornucopia…four… _He did not let go when Finn's body went limp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Thank you to sohypothetically for beta'ing. You are so very patient. Using the prompt 'tergiversate' from the Caesar's Palace forum.**

"I did want to say congratulations." A cool breeze off the mountains teased her skirt and tickled her calves. Absently, she held down the fabric and wondered why she bothered; it was nearly sheer. She smiled genuinely, her face turned into the breeze. High above her head, a waterfall played off the rocks. It was too far away to see the little rainbows that gathered where the spray rose in the morning sun. "I mean it."

"You don't have to." He spread his hands in his lap and looked down with modesty that was too perfect to be real. A smug smile threatened to paint itself across his face. A pair of tiny sparrows hopped about his feet, their feathers fluffed up against the breeze. One boldly fluttered onto the gamemaker's foot and pecked at the crumb of toast that had fallen there. He took the last, cooling slice of toast and tore it into pieces to suit the sparrows' delicate beaks and dropped them under the table. The birds gleefully chittered among the paving stones. "You could say we're on opposite sides."

"Seneca." Annabel reached over the remnants of their breakfast and touched his forearm. She always liked the soft, silky shirts he favoured. He looked up. She noticed he was trying out something new with his beard; she hoped it wouldn't last, for she preferred the feel of his stubble on her skin. "We _are_ on opposite sides, you can't get much further than that. But I still think you deserve it–"

"Annabel –"

"No! You told me you've always wanted to be head gamemaker since you were a little boy." The thought of Seneca as a child tinged her fond smile with regret; from what he had told her, his childhood lacked the warmth that hers abounded in. It was easy to imagine him, slight and dark, hunched over his sketches for company, his father in the control room for weeks at a time, and his mother careening from party to affair. She imagined him hearing the front door slam early each morning and heard his wistful sigh. A little swift darted overhead. They both followed it with their eyes and Annabel remembered the great, black currawongs that perched among the branches of the thorn tree like gallows-ravens. Her smile twisted, half a frown. "Even if your imagination is a bit dark."

"The games wouldn't have been my idea," he said regretfully, raising his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He shot her a wry glance and the swift chittered and called for her mate to join her in the air. "What did _you_ want?"

"To drink?" She glanced around for the waitress lingering by the sweeping steps up to the veranda. The girl was watching them carefully; she had been directed to wait on the victor and the gamemaker – nobody else. The café was affectionately known as _The Roost_ for the swifts that returned each year to nest in the eaves. In the shadow of the Kellies, it was too close to the border of District 2 to attract the elite of the Capitol very often, but it did a roaring trade with those who fancied a little novelty, or just liked the quiet. Annabel and Seneca visited often. The waitress glided softly over to their table and smiled with dark, District 2 eyes; her grandfather had come from the Western Tiers before the borders closed down. Annabel looked to her companion before she answered. "Seneca, No, you're good? Well I'll grab my smoothie again."

The girl nodded and smiled and swished away. Crane did not watch the way her black skirt hugged her hips; he looked to Annabel and shook his head. "I meant when you were a little girl. What did you want more than anything?"

"Oh. You'll laugh." She turned to look over the rugged peaks and let the breeze cool her cheeks. The graceful swifts were staging an airborne dance, flying for the sheer joy of it. Their bodies were so light on the warm air, and Annabel wondered if it was like swimming. The birds had no care for the border crossing, officially stamped travel documents and the ugly chain-link fence. But they could not keep her attention for long; her eyes grew faraway. She looked back to District 4 and well past it, to the stories she grew up on. She shook her head and laughed again. Her eyebrows rose and she said, "I know you'll laugh."

"I won't." The gamemaker made a cross over his heart and his near-black eyes glittered. In Grandda's tales, Hades of the cruel Underworld had black eyes with flame dancing in their centre. "I was a little boy drawing dragons. Go on."

"Until I was eight, I wanted to be a mermaid."

"With a tail and scales?" Seneca kept his face perfectly neutral – a skill he often used, though rarely with Annabel. "You know, you'd make a beautiful mermaid."

"Oh, don't tease." Annabel shook her hair, long and loose, over her face and peered out from behind it. The waitress bobbed a quick courtesy and left a tall, sculpted glass by her elbow. It was a violent purple: dragonfruit and starfruit and jackfruit and half a dozen others that were shipped up from District 11's lush orchards. There, the vines were better fed than the people and the growing swell of a firm melon was more pleasing than the burgeoning of a woman's belly. She took a sip and swirled the tiny, black Nelly Kelly seeds – she had asked for them to be left in – against her teeth. "So, it must be exciting to have the arena all finished on time. _Your _arena."

Seneca leaned back in his seat and chuckled. He checked his sleek, silver watch and pretended to count. "Well, you waited forty minutes before you brought it up." His face dropped with mock-hurt but his moustache twitched. "Is this the only reason you're friends with me?"

"Are we only friends?" The young woman matched him with an expression of theatrical shock. She put her hand on her chest in a well-practised gesture that was_ all_ Capitol; her fingers skimmed her breast and tightened the fabric there. "You know, you're good for shouting breakfast, too. Maybe a few other things."

"For that, it's your shout." He took a sip of rich, black coffee and smiled over the lip of his cup. His eyebrows lifted in a sleek line and Annabel read his glance – silken sheets and a familiar view of the Capitol lit up at night. Seneca had a fabulous balcony. She nodded and her fingers skimmed down her shoulder and nudged the neck of her top, and he watched. "It's a good thing your tributes like it _hot." _

"They do…"

"Well, tell them to keep to the middle, then. I think it'll suit. Their allies won't like it."

"And who else did you tell that to?" Annabel raised her eyebrows. She leant forwards and took a slow sip. Her lips were stained very pink.

"Always doubting me." Crane let his gaze drop to his hands, and his lips curved down. But he could not resist looking up quickly to catch the young woman's eye; grey was so common that it had become rare in the city where eye colour changed with a quick spritz. "I'll see you tonight?"

When he left her at the great marble plaza, Crane kissed her cheek and pulled back with his dark eyes on her face. Annabel raised her eyebrows and leaned forwards to kiss him properly. Usually, she didn't like the taste of bitter coffee, but for the gamemaker, she made an exception.

Heads still turned when she entered the plaza. _Really, _she thought_, _as she always did, _you haven't had enough of me yet? _The smile she wore on the outside promised that there was never enough. Tall as a child, she had grown into a woman who filled out the curves of her dress. She kept her hair long enough to swish against her backside. Growing up in the real sun had made her skin look soft and good to touch. There was something _real_ about her that drew the eye – at least it seemed real to the people of the Capitol – and sometimes it worried Annabel that her mask and her self were blending. It was getting harder to take the mask off. So she tossed her hair over her shoulder, knowing that it showed off the swan-like curve of her neck and drew attention to her breasts. Today, her skirt was diaphanous cream. It had as little substance as sea-foam; everyone could see that she found no need for underwear. Her shirt was a deep, deep green, but tight enough to leave little to imagine. She did not feel naked – it had been three years since the girl had stood in Arianne Cratt's sumptuous bedroom for the first time and fought the urge to cover her growing breasts with her hands. She shook her hair again and laughed prettily.

It had taken tonnes and tonnes of marble to make the open floors and sweeping balconies of the plaza. Great columns supported the upper levels and at their feet, wide gardens of roses were built so their delicate stems curved up and up, red and white and peach and cream. It was the ground level that was most important to Annabel, for the advance betting had opened. Running for more than a hundred metres, a wide bank of screens hummed quietly. After the Reaping at the end of the week, they would display all the information the sponsors could desire for the products to choose between. Some liked a gamble, and some would throw away money entirely on looks: on the cheeky smile of one boy, or the way a girl's waist dipped. But others took their game very seriously and studied as one would a racehorse, and for those, the screens would show height, weight, injuries – past and present – skills, trainings scores, and ever-fluctuating odds. Soon, larger than life, the images of twenty-four children would be projected upon the floor for the sponsors to inspect like cattle. Now the screens showed only the seal of each district and the odds for advance bets. Annabel glanced up and saw that District 4 was offered 1:15. District 2 was at 1:5. She turned away.

A long bar, a counter of gold veined marble, ran opposite the screens. Two-dozen young men and women waited behind it, and their shirts were uniformly tight. Annabel walked to the bar with a sway to her hips. When she won, her stylist, Darrnan, had to build curves into her dresses because the audience preferred a murderous young woman to a child who still couldn't believe the blood on her hands and blades was real. She believed it, now. When she leant her elbows on the stone, her dress pulled tight across her backside.

"Hi, Lavinia."

"Miss Cresta." The server was near her own age, red hair tumbling down her back – hygiene standards be damned. Annabel was jealous of her hair; there were highlights of fire, and soft strawberry. She supposed she could probably have it made into a wig, whether or not the girl agreed. Annabel had seen her most days for the past two weeks – they had both been working since the plaza opened for the advance betting.

"Usual, please." She turned over her shoulder to flash a smile to the room. More than one man thought it was for him. "Have you seen Dirk anywhere?"

"Just down there, miss."

"I'll grab a scotch, too."

Annabel took her drink and tasted kiwifruit and something that burned the back of her throat. Two weeks ago she told Lavinia to give her something bright in a tall glass. All that mattered was she had a stem to twirl in her fingers and she could shoot loaded glances over the rim. She wrinkled her nose and took Dirk's drink, too. He was talking earnestly to a woman in her sixties; she had let her hair grey, which was rare in the Capitol, but Emilia Varner was known for being outrageously down to earth. Plain brown hair was becoming scarce, and soon it would probably be considered exotic and all the bright yellows and greens and silvers would be replaced for a season or two. By the time Annabel sauntered over, Dirk had kissed the woman's cheek and she left with a smile. Annabel saw her hand reaching for her purse. Everyone knew that the Varners always sponsored District 2; they were heavily invested in quarrying. Dirk looked pleased. He was as tall and imposing as when Annabel had first met him over Tate's hospital bed. She had never had trouble reconciling him with the grim eighteen year old who won the 43rd Games with a pair of dual swords and a sense of duty. He was wearing black, as he had in the arena. It had been a desert of white sand, white sky and dead, white trees where the tributes could see each other from miles away. Annabel realised he only wore black for the Capitol when she visited him two years ago in District 2 to see the snow.

"It's not too early to drink, is it?" Annabel greeted him and handed him the glass. Dirk took a sip and swirled it against his teeth. He grimaced.

"You sound like Abernathy." Annabel found Dirk's accent comforting rather than harsh, now; he never said her name as it was meant to be said, but it was better than a Capitol drawl. Dirk pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "There. Reckon this might give you a laugh."

"I didn't think you read magazines?"

"Enobaria does. And we've been keeping an eye on what they're saying about Fallon."

"Fair enough." Annabel unfolded the article and rolled her eyes. There was a glossy picture of her and Dirk, from the opening party at the plaza a few weeks ago. She skimmed the first line. _Over the past four years, we've seen an unlikely friendship grow, but is this something more? Is our Annabel developing a taste for older men? _She laughed, then. It was not a contrived, Capitol titter, but a happy, rolling sound. – and it felt good. She folded the article and slipped it in her shirt to read later. "Oh, that's good. That's good. They're running out of ideas."

"Thought you'd like it." Dirk smiled quickly but it did not last. He took another swallow of his drink. There was a different intensity to him this year; he drank quickly and clicked the ice against the side of the glass. And she did not blame him. Two nights ago, she had slipped from a dream where coloured fish swam through the air and teased at her hair and in the next heartbeat she stood on the Reaping Stage in Damash Square while Finn's name clung to the searing air. Peacekeepers, their faces hidden, had dragged Finn up to the stage and threw him at her feet. He had screamed when she tried to comfort him. Annabel had torn herself from sleep and was still pacing her bedroom when the sun rose. She and Finn did not even share blood – she understood why the lines had grown sharper around Dirk's mouth, why his hands shook.

"I shouldn't, but I've got something to tell you," she murmured. Her heels clicked on the polished marble and she kept pace with Dirk's quick strides. He always walked as if he were going somewhere important.

They stopped in a quiet corner and Dirk's face folded into a frown. "You been with Crane again?"

"You've already told me what you think of him," she said primly. _You're not my father, _she thought. _My own father's heart would break if he knew what I did here. He wouldn't let it happen if he knew. _"Anyway, he said it'd be hot, and the middle of the arena would suit my tributes. Not yours. Sounds like you've got to tell them to head to the edges as soon as they can."

"Anything else?"

"I'm seeing Seneca tonight."

Dirk forced a scowl from his face. He swallowed. "Well, thanks. You know I can't tell you anything this time."

"I know. If I hear anything else, I'll let you know."

"I'm going home tonight. You've got my number."

Before Annabel went to her lunch appointment, she found Dirk again, smiling as warmly as she could. She wanted to say that she was sorry, and she wished him good luck. Annabel didn't ask him why he hadn't talked his nephew out of volunteering; Fallon was the closest thing Dirk would ever get to a son, and the children of victors usually ended up in the arena. Taro Lockyer had seen two sons come through it alive. After what Dirk had done for her over the last four years, she felt a little information was a paltry gift, but she hoped it helped. She did not feel a traitor for wishing Dirk's tribute luck over her own.

The girl from 4 was not the only victor prowling the plaza. They circulated among the heads of companies, advisors, officials, investors, and politicians. _Just one bomb, _she thought, _would probably take out half the ruling class of the Capitol. I guess Beetee's already thought about that. _She had been scanned on the way in. These three weeks of advance betting belonged to the career districts. Many of the mentors from outlying districts did not bother to come to the Capitol until they boarded the train with their tributes – if they had a choice. Annabel heard that Seeder's coffee-brown skin and quick smile once made her very popular here. For Districts 1 and 2 in particular, the sponsors had a good idea of what they were getting before the Reaping. Of course, they could predict the wide-eyed, hollow-bellied children that 12, 8 and 11 sent year after year, but their odds were not worth posting. Someone had to lose.

"Annabel," Merit hailed her. He was speaking with a man a little younger than him who smirked and enjoyed the attention. Annabel's practised eye judged his worth in the soft sheen of his cream-pearl suit and the delicacy of the tattoos around his lips and over his cheeks. _Investment, _she thought, _that's just come through with the money. He's never done this before. _"Come and meet Mr Olinger."

Annabel offered her hand and Olinger took it. She felt callouses hidden under a new layer of skin; he had once worked hard for his money. His eyes flicked from her chest to her face. There were tiny forget-me-nots tattooed around his lips. Did he think his kisses were worth such a boast? The tattoos were fresh. "Well," she purred, "have you ever been to the beach? I mean, the real one?"

"I haven't left the Capitol." He looked small next to the two victors. He tugged at his sleeve and Annabel's smile took on a quality that was very close to predatory; after all, didn't hunters lust after blood?

"Oh, the ocean is…powerful, and beautiful, too. You'd _love_ it." She took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes as if to savour it. "You know, I haven't seen you here before."

He left grinning, but Annabel shook her head. Her smile dropped away. "I feel bad doing this."

"I know. Reckon it's even harder for Dirk than when it was his younger brother." Merit scrubbed a hand through his hair and Annabel bit her lip; the gesture reminded her of Tate. Perhaps Merit felt the same, for he quickly dropped his hand. When Leda had been busy night after night, and Merit had found it too painful to see Annabel getting ready to lose her virginity to a woman who had paid for her, she had talked to Dirk. She thought he was probably just missing his nephew, but it was good to talk to someone. _It's fucked, I know, _he had said. _But you do it enough and it's just like any other job. _"We've still got to try for our tributes, but, well, maybe we don't have to try quite so hard. It'll be worse when the Games start."

"Does this happen often?"

"Too often." Merit nodded. "If one of us has got someone really important in the games, we just tend to…go a bit easy. That way, if it ever happens to you, you'll get the same treatment. You weren't born when they Reaped Mags' girls one after the other. She wasn't so lucky as Taro."

* * *

><p>The Capitol spread out below her, lit up like daytime. To the west, the mountains crouched dark and hulking. When she got a chance, she'd call District 2 and let Dirk know that his nephew should brush up on his hand-to-hand combat. To be fair, she'd tell her own tributes when they were chosen the day after tomorrow. It was cooler up here; Seneca's apartment was where all the best places were – well above street level. She leant against the railing and let the soft breeze sweep her hair around her face. The metal was cool on her skin, and Seneca's hands were the same as he swept the hair from her neck and dropped a kiss there.<p>

"I'll see you to the train tomorrow morning."

"You don't have to. It's early."

"I know."

"Thank you." She turned around and put her back to the city lights. At night, Seneca's eyes were truly black. She looked straight into them before she kissed him. His arms wrapped around her shoulders and she felt the rail against her back. As she leant over, her hair unfurled like a waterfall. The city lights caught in it. "We'll be up early tomorrow…"

"We will." Seneca's eyes darkened further and he read the invitation in her voice. Together, they tangled in his red silk sheets.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Thanks to my lovely beta, sohypothetically. Warning for a slight non-consensual situation. **

The moon rose from the ocean and turned the broken glass to diamond. It shone on the waves and made a bright pathway to the shore. And it made a spotlight on the two boys in the water. Finn floated, facedown, in the liquid-silver sea. The waves rocked his body. Still, the older boy held him down. Barra counted in his head, slowly and deliberately, and tried to contain his excitement. He had already counted past the point where he could hold his breath, but he waited a little longer. The wavelets smacked against his thighs and he quivered with anticipation; the best part of the game was to come. His cock was hard up against his stomach. So Barra waited. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Then, Finn screamed underwater. A burst of bubbles broke the surface as he released the breath he had been holding, as he played dead. But Barra knew his trick well enough. And now, Finn fought. Oh, he fought. He writhed like an eel. His fingernails tore at Barra's skin. The salt water burned and foamed. And Finn fought for his life. Colours raced across his vision – shadows, rainbows, and things with faces or not at all – and then it darkened. Once more, Finn stilled.

Barra grinned and pressed his hand to his aching groin. He couldn't wait to get home, now. The moon was cold and faraway; it did not smile down. He rolled the child onto his back and grabbed a handful of his hair. Finn was too weak to struggle and his glazed green eyes stared up at the darkening sky. Barra dragged him back to the shore and left him there on the damp sand. As the waves kissed the shore, they swirled around the child's ankles, too; the tide was on the way in. Barra left him there. He gritted his teeth, still smiling, and washed out his scratches in the shallow. Barra paused, letting the sting fade, and he looked back to Finn. The child's clothes were slicked close to his skin, and temptingly see-through; he may as well not be wearing anything. The older boy took half a step forward and licked his lips. Up on the high tide line, the dog yipped impatiently and Barra shook his head; he would return to his tiny bedroom back at the _Docks, _instead. Then, he whistled for his patched mongrel and loped back up the beach. The soft night took him.

The salt-air felt cold. Each breath sent daggers to Finn's chest, but each was so _good._ He took deep breaths of the night, but the air felt different, or perhaps his starved lungs were not working properly. Soon, shivers took hold of the boy; he was hot and deathly cold by turns, yet they did not rise from either feeling. They made it harder to breathe as his body remembered the darkening of his sight and slowing of his heart. He was crying, too. Finn's tears were not for the bitter unfairness of the act – no, that would come later. Now, something far more primal bubbled up in his chest and spilled out in ugly, shuddering sobs. He was crying just for the feel of air on his skin.

A larger wave rushed up the beach and swirled about the child. Cold fingers curled over his nose and mouth and he screamed. It tore at his throat and he gagged. With weakened limbs he lurched up the sand. He collapsed by the high tide line and huddled on his side. He retched then, bringing up bile and sea-water that smelt like fear; it lasted a long time. When he was finished, soft, powdery sand clung to his wet skin. He didn't notice when he rolled back into the mess. The stars came out, then. At first there was one, two, three, and then with a blink and a shift, whole constellations burst into life. Orion's belt blazed on before the hunter himself. The celestial maiden he chased across the heavens was slow to appear, but when she did, she peered over her shoulder to ensure she had not lost Orion in the dark. And Finn looked until they burned in his eyes. They were beautiful, though he did not see them as they were; for the exhausted child on the beach, the stars cascaded and mixed like foam at the foot of a waterfall. But he knew the stories well. His lips moved, framing the story of Orion and his maiden, though he could hardly make a sound. When he did, his voice was weak and trembling. Perhaps he had left it in the waves – he had gone three parts on a very dark journey. Soon, his stories stopped. When the train rushed by, he did not hear it.

The long summer evening was drawing to a close when she found him. Her heels clicked across the platform and her skirt swished like the soft murmur of the nearby waves. Twilight had faded from purple to dark and the night-wind picked up. It was nearly nine-o'clock. She stopped to take in the sound of the waves, the feel of the salt and the pale moon on her skin. She took a breath of home. Softly, her long skirt fluttered about her ankles and she reached behind to unclasp her heavy, dark hair. She shook it out and, sail-like, it spread behind her. A long gull arced overhead but it did not land. She smiled. There was enough moonlight to make the beach sparkle with glass-diamond. Annabel unclasped her necklace and slid the heavy stone into the pocket of her skirt; she preferred the glitter of broken glass. She had been in the Capitol long enough that her blood adjusted to the cooler summer; she slipped her jacket from her shoulders.

At the lighted window of the office by the south end of the platform, a bored young man straightened and smiled. Annabel smiled back and ran a hand teasingly through her hair. The attendant blushed – so did she, when she realised that she had not taken off her Capitol-mask.

"Welcome home, Miss Cresta." His voice cracked with nerves and youth. With eyes downcast, he offered a set of keys. "Car's just down the steps for you."

"Thank you." She took the keys and read his nametag. This time, her smile reached her grey eyes and came through in her voice; she sounded happy-tired, even if she was home for only one night.

"Need anything else, miss?"

"Have you seen a boy around? Bit younger than me. Brown-blonde hair."

"I did see him earlier, but not sure where he went. Maybe the beach. Least, he didn't leave this way."

"Thanks. That's all."

"Goodnight then, Annabel." He let the name slip from his tongue, and his eyes widened – he wanted to grab it back. His cheeks flamed again, but Annabel nodded and smiled. It was good to hear her name in the right accent; Dirk's voice was clipped and rough, and Seneca dragged her name out languidly. Her clients liked her to say their names, and magazines like _Capitol Culture _and _Today _printed them all.

"Goodnight, Timon."

Annabel knew better than to take her shoes off on this beach. She tucked the edge of her skirt up into her belt and took to the sand. The day's heat was fading, but it was still pleasant. She took deep, slow breaths. Annabel was home, and for just a night, she could forget how many hands had touched her, and how many she had touched. Close up, she could see the broken glass.

"Finn?" He did not answer, but Annabel found him anyway – she always would. He was sprawled on his back – a forgotten plaything – and he was looking up at the stars. There was a sheen to his eyes that said he could not see them. "Finn, I'm back."

This time, she was heedless of the glass. She went down on her knees by his side. His skin was warm. For a moment, she feared he was not breathing, and she breathed quickly enough for both of them. Her heart raced. Her stomach roiled. She shook his shoulder and she called his name again. Perhaps, this time he heard her. Finn blinked, once, twice, and he rolled over and retched miserably onto the sand. Then, she gathered him to her. Sand and vomit clung to his clothes and skin, and soon to hers. They were both crying. Finn's sobs were loud, heartfelt and childish. Annabel's were quiet. She kissed his hair and whispered his name over and over like a prayer. The moon shone and pulled the waves up the glittering beach and Finn started to tremble again as he felt the warmth of Annabel's skin. Perhaps, they may not have moved for a long time, but Annabel felt the blood. Broken glass had cut Finn's palms and knees as he crawled up the beach. His back was bloodied, too. Annabel felt as if she had been cut. It was too dark for her to see the bruises seeping onto Finn's skin.

"Finn, what happened to you?" But once more, he could only tremble. He hid his face against her chest. So Annabel ran her hands over his body, squinting in the dim light, and decided that most of the bleeding had stopped and he would not need to go to the hospital for stitches. Finn trembled and pressed himself into her touch. Annabel remembered the last time he had gone to the hospital it had been her fault. They left the sand. Finn limped on cut soles, but she was strong enough to take most of his weight. She carried him, as she had for years. Together this time, they passed through the empty station and by the lonely tracks. The office was darkened now. In the car, she wrapped her jacket around his shoulders and turned the heaters on. Finn was weak, but as he curled in his seat he reached out to hold a handful of her hair to his cheek. Annabel called Sedna, said she would take him home in the morning. She drove with one eye on Finn, half her attention on the darking road.

Two years ago, when she visited District 2, Dirk had laughed at her and told her he would not chauffer her around. Well, her driver took her to the best restaurants in Marble where she met with the executives of several factories assembling weapons and the owner of half a dozen quarries. She also met a man, Fraser Kindlam, who had revived the most ancient skill of turning cold marble into warm, living flesh. While she spent most of her time inside a restaurant or inside someone's bedroom, Dirk had picked her up for an afternoon and let her crunch the gears on his jeep up and around the foothills. Officially, her talent was poetry, but Annabel had learnt to drive, to fake half a hundred different smiles, and to make men and women writhe under her hands and her hips.

Annabel skirted Damash Square, but could not miss the lights that flooded the car. They showed Finn's face was flushed, sweaty. He was still holding onto her hair, but his eyes were closed. She leant over and touched his cheek. When he opened his eyes and smiled faintly, Annabel sighed with relief, but she edged the speedometer up. Even now, a handful of technicians worked to run a final check on the audio and visual links that would broadcast the Reaping to the 400,000 people who would not fit in the square or who lived more than a day's journey away. The Capitol TV crews used their own equipment. Annabel knew that a hundred images of her face would decorate the square and the surrounding streets; she was still District 4's most recent victor. The long line-up of all the victors would be projected upon the white marble of the Justice Building, and she would stand there between Cashmere from District 1, and Avery from District 2. She was glad she had not actually had to pose with them. Last in the line, the stocky boy from District 11 would stand. He was lucky enough to have built up a resistance to the toxins that seeped from the soil to the water and had killed her tributes slowly.

She drove past old Maggie Dock's house and marvelled that the woman was still living alone. _Not quite alone, _Annabel corrected herself. _I guess she and Jevon rub on fine together. _While the strength had leeched naturally from Maggie's limbs, Jevon's sight had been burned away by the triple suns of his arena. With faces drawn, the Capitol doctors had made their statements, regretfully, _We did all we could, but the damage was too severe. We are sorry. _Jevon said if he had kept his mouth shut in the arena he wouldn't be wearing dark glasses now.

Annabel's house was quiet, but not dark. It was a beacon in sleek white render, light spilling generously from the windows. She parked close by the back door and helped Finn inside. She kissed her mother, waiting at the kitchen table, and let her father kiss her, and then she took Finn upstairs. Compliant, he followed her, pressing close to her side; she could smell vomit and blood, and the scent was too familiar. Annabel had learnt that death was rarely dignified. The bathroom was all warm brown and cream tiles, and when she turned on the heater, the floor soon felt warm like skin.

"I'm going to run you a bath, Finn," she said. Annabel wondered why she had a bath so large when the ocean surged against the rocks within sight and sound. She ran it, anyway. Despite the ostentatious size of the tub, Annabel liked it for the sculpted metal tentacles that held it up off the ground. She was reminded of Fraser and his perfectly wrought stone. He had white dust ground into the cracks of his knuckles, and his hands were gentle, rather than practised, when he slipped her coat from her shoulders. The front part of the workshop he showed her had been devoted to solemn busts of Snow and his closest advisors, rendered in a style nearly lost to the world before the Dark Days were even thought off. Even those hard men and women had a strange sort of beauty in the stone that seemed as if it should be warm to the touch. Fraser had taken her through a cleverly concealed trapdoor – he had to use a winch to move a block of raw stone from the top – and she had caught her breath. Finn would have loved it. There were only two sculptures there, but the space was large enough to have held more. _Once they're done, _he said softly, _I find them a new home, up in the mountains where the roads are so bad people don't go. They don't mind the cold. _And Annabel saw why he had to hide them away; the finished sculpture was a man whose wings arched high over his shoulders and cascaded like a beautiful cape down his back. The other, not yet finished, just the rough shape of a young woman. Her face was unclear. _Maggie Dock, she said that I should show you these_, he said. Annabel had told him the story of the beautiful and deadly Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons, and Fraser promised to make a stone queen with her face. Fraser Kindlam was one of the first would-be rebels Merit, Dirk and Maggie introduced her to.

Annabel dragged her thoughts from the Amazon Queen who now stood guard over a ravine high up in the northern Border Range, and she looked to Finn. The bath filled quickly, but Finn had not taken his clothes off. He swayed a little where he stood. She went to him, quietly and gently.

"Finn, come on, get undressed," she said. He looked at her as if her words came from a great distance. So Annabel slipped her jacket from his shoulders and eased his damp shirt off. She bumped a little cut that started to bleed a bit, but Finn did not notice. His eyes were closed, and he enjoyed her gentle hands. Annabel was good at undressing people. As children, they had seen each other naked more often than they could count. Satnus and Mella had been very close friends before the hurricane that took his life. They had been close enough that Dagon's gaze had been resentful. Sedna was just tired of it. Finn and Annabel were brought together often enough to soon start seeking each other out. Often, they would splash around naked in the rockpools by Calder Beach while Satnus and Mella sat together and twisted their wedding bands sadly. Now Annabel wondered when Finn had stopped being a child. _I suppose it happened while I was in the Capitol, _she thought.

It had been two years since Annabel stood in Arrianne Cratt's luxurious bedroom and resisted the urge to cover her breasts with her hands. She stood there many times since, or lounged on the bed and taught herself to think of something else. Finn had never learnt to be self-conscious. _You really are beautiful, _she thought, and she wondered if that were to be a gift, or a curse. _Grandda always said everything was a mixed blessing. _She pushed away the thought, and, putting her hand on his shoulder, guided Finn to the bath. He sat there like a child would, with knees drawn up to his chest. To Annabel, he was a heartbreaking contrast. There was the innocent beauty that many in the Capitol strove for, yet with their paints and dyes and needles full of ink they became less and less what they wanted to manufacture. Finn had none what the brightly dyed and dressed Capitol folk had in abundance; unlike them, he did not think he should rule the world, nor was he willing to stand up and speak his worth. Annabel admired Seneca's self-possession as he strode across the floor of the plaza and shook off those who hoped to gain a privileged insight into the workings of the games. She was struck by Dirk Lockyer's determination and the way he hid his desperation behind a gruff word as he tried to ensure his nephew would not starve to death in the arena he had no choice but to enter. Annabel herself did not realise that it was not just her tanned skin and flowing hair that turned eyes toward her when she stepped onto the plaza. She was no longer a child, and while she tucked her own strength away in the curves of her dress, it was there to see. She had a presence she had not had before. But Finn was barely there.

That was when she noticed the bruises. They had oozed from Finn's skin, over his neck and his shoulders. One was dark and ugly and large across his stomach. Her lips pressed in a thin, hard line as she tried to hide her anger from him. Her hands might have shook, but they were gentle when she traced the bruises over his throat. They had not developed properly, yet, but she guessed that whoever made them had much larger hands than she did. Annabel gritted her teeth and thought of Finn lying deliriously among the rotting seaweed and broken glass. She put her hand on his shoulder and he leant his head against her hip.

"Who did this to you, Finn?" _Who held your head underwater until you very nearly saw what death looked like? _The thought came to Annabel's mind quite suddenly, and she shivered; yes, that was what the bruises were from. She had seen the like before, on Finn's soft-tan skin, and on her own neck in the mirror. Some of her clients liked to play rough, and she had asked Portia to cover the bruises well so she did not alarm Seneca when she visited him the next night. "Finn, please, come on?"

True dark had fallen outside and the summer evening was finished. It was night, now. Annabel put her hand gently under Finn's chin and tilted his face up to hers. His eyes were glowing green, brighter now with tears. Hers were hard. Sea-green was the colour for the gentle coves and sheltered beaches, but very rarely the open ocean. Blue-grey, steel-grey, slate-grey – that was when the ocean was strong and fierce and it showed its power. Annabel's eyes were a sea at storm. Finn recognised the power there, and he could not hold her gaze for long.

"Barra," he said quietly. She still held his chin, but he looked down through his thick lashes. Annabel could see tears forming at the corners of his eyes. When he started to sob bitterly, she held him against her. With his face pressed against her hip, she let him cry and rubbed smooth circles on his back. Now came the agonising tears as Finn remembered not his primal fear and struggle, but the helplessness that he had felt in the face of Barra's strength and cruelty. He remembered his struggles that came to nothing, and when he looked up suddenly, Annabel was shocked to see the clarity in his eyes. Finn usually got angry as a child – all heat and injustice and passion for just a moment – but his anger was different now. Annabel recognised the slow-burning hunger for vengeance that she herself had felt when her allies from District 2 left her to die in the Pit in her arena. Finn confirmed it for her. "Can you hurt him?"

She swallowed. _Yes, yes, darling, I'll kill him for you. I'll put a dirk in his guts and twist the blade until he screams. _"The Reaping is tomorrow. You never know what might happen."

At the mention of the Reaping, the energy seemed to leave Finn once more. He ducked his head against her and did not speak again. So Annabel took a cloth and slowly, she began to wash away the little lines of dried blood that laced his skin. She ran her hand down the clean contours of his shoulders and his back and felt the lean muscles there. _Is it still right to think of him as a child?_ Annabel knew that at least part of her always would, though at the same time she felt a deep tug in her gut and her eyes slipped to his lean swimmer's thighs and what rested between them. The hair was so light, golden, that it was barely there, and she stopped herself from touching it. Instead, Annabel slowly cleaned the sand, blood, vomit and fear from his skin and washed it from his hair. She inspected each of his hands and the cuts there, and she kissed his palms one at a time, her lips parted and half-eager. Annabel knew that Seneca would not mind; he had never been terribly faithful to her over the last two years. Then, Finn giggled like a child as he felt her lips on his skin. Heat spread to Annabel's cheeks and for the very first time since she had met Finn, she was embarrassed. Guilt mixed with the lust in her gut. She dropped his hand.

"Well, let's get you dressed, Finn."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Thanks to sohypothetically for beta'ing. **

* * *

><p>She woke to the curtains glowing pink with the rising sun. In her own private cathedral, Annabel felt the light on her closed eyelids and turned her face to the east. Knowing that once she opened her eyes the day would begin, she delayed. Instead, she felt. It was far from unusual for her to wake up to someone else sleeping beside her. It was nice to share her bed with Finn. Often, she would wake, tangled in Crane's soft, silk sheets and cross to the balcony. She would stand there and let the early morning air bring goose bumps to her skin, knowing it would be too soon for any but the avoxes cleaning the streets to see her. She and Seneca usually rose early; soon she would feel his cool skin against her back and she would turn in his arms to feel how his carefully manicured stubble had grown rough in the night. She liked it better that way. Often, they would have breakfast in one of the small cafes at the city's edge. Sometimes, Seneca would order in and she would smell coffee and oranges and sex. Once, she remembered with a wry smile, she had woken in an unfamiliar room with her mouth sour and sick. There had been an achingly beautiful skyline of the Border Range painted across one wall, but her eyes had been too sore and bloodshot to see it. Dirk had not bothered to hide his disapproval when she stumbled out to find him in the kitchen; slowly she had remembered the layout of District 2's floor on the tribute tower. <em>You remember? You thought you didn't want Merit and Leda to see you that bad, <em>he had said. _You were bloody pissed. _

It wasn't the first time she had woken up to Finn. As children, they thought it fun to share a bed and were unaware of the sympathetic looks that their mothers passed their way. Finn slept still, in beautiful disarray, his hair tangled about his face, covering his eyes. Annabel smiled. There was a soft dusting of hair over his jaw and cheeks, but she doubted he had to shave. That was a good thing. It was a twice-yearly nightmare to cut Finn's hair, for he shivered and flinched when he saw scissors in front of his face. Usually, it took two people to do it. Once, Sedna let his hair grow so long he could have been mistaken for a girl, but that only made the teasing worse at school. Sedna asked Jarrett to hold him still while she wielded the scissors.

Annabel slipped from bed and padded, soft-footed, to the balcony. Down below, the waves bumped gently against the limestone cliffs. Cayr Beach's little coves never saw the surging rollers that hammered the coast further down. The beach by the Victor's Village was a gentle place, but the people were not. Today, the water was peaceful green, at least she could tell it would be when the sun rose fully and lent its light. The roiling in her gut felt like a sea at storm. She looked back to Finn. The loose t-shirt he wore had been pushed up in sleep; his stomach was lean and flat, but she hated the way bruises muddied his skin. _When I get back from the Games, I'll fix this, _she thought. She was not strong enough to admit that she used that excuse often.

The sunrise was just touching the sky as she leant her arms on the sill and put her head down. She was not praying; her thoughts were not clear enough for that. _Who would I pray to? _she thought. _The gods in Finn's stories? The president? _Faces swirled before her eyes. Annabel saw Dirk's rare smile as he spoke to his nephew over the phone. She saw Finn's hair stirring like seaweed, his mouth open and screaming underwater, and she saw him on the Reaping Stage. She shook her head until her hair hung tangled around her shoulders, but she still saw Finn, a golden cornucopia, and a boy who looked like a younger Dirk with his hands around Finn's neck. _No._ _I won't see Finn in the arena. Seneca promised. _But it was easy to think of Dirk's nephew, Mags' two children, and the way Merle waited with a sick heart each year, dreading to hear her nieces' names called. Too often, the children, lovers, and friends of victors ended up in the arena. Occasionally, they became victors, too.

Taking possession of herself, Annabel pushed her hair from her face and straightened. _It's Finn, _she thought, _nothing's ever going to happen to him. He's got more luck than anyone deserves. _So she drew back the curtains and let the early sunrise creep into the room. She sat back on the bed and watched the first gulls swoop over Cayr Beach. Now there was freedom. Finn woke soon after, stretching and nuzzling his face into the pillow like a child. Annabel watched the play of muscle over his back as he rolled over. His shorts had dipped low at his hips. _That's how most people see me, isn't it? Just flesh. _Her cheeks flushed and she moved her gaze to Finn's face.

"Want to go to the beach?" she asked.

They talked as the sun rose. It was a magnificent, bloody, glorious sunrise. Annabel couldn't help thinking that it was the last time that one – maybe two – children from 4 would see the sun grow from the waves. And it did. It was not yet too bright to look at, and Annabel and Finn stared down the sun. She wondered if Dirk and his nephew had found a quiet moment to watch the sky lighten behind the Kellies. The Reaping in 1 and 2 was a highlight; it was saved for the evening. Choosing two children from 12 was considered a commercial break. Usually, their deaths were, too. Here, the Reaping would take place at 11, when the sun was nearly at its zenith.

The sun seemed to rise from the sea itself, as if it were born just for the two of them. Finn and Annabel sat side by side, just touching, and for a moment it really did seem as if the morning was dreamed up just for them. Finn watched with lips slightly parted. Annabel watched Finn, and she wore a sad smile. The air had not yet grown too hot, and the waves were very gentle. _It's like a last gift, _Annabel thought, and she could not shake the feeling. She put her arms around the boy beside her and held his head against her shoulder. Finn did not question her sudden rush of affection. Sadly, she traced a line of bruising under his jaw. There was a handprint there, bold as sin. Finn seemed to have forgotten about it. Annabel watched the clouds turn from dusky pink to fiery orange; Finn was content with his face against her warmth. Then, he pulled away suddenly.

"Annie, I found something." He freed himself from her arms, eyes sparkling. There were two little dimples in his cheeks that made Annabel's heart ache. He sat carefully upright in the sand, quivering with excitement.

"What is it?"

"Guess!"

"Is it…a bird's nest?" Annabel grinned. She supposed it was more than just a nest of ugly baby gulls, or the leathery case of a shark's egg, but she guessed them anyway. Finn shook his head each time. He rocked back and forth in the sand, unable to keep still. She guessed until his impatience grew and the words bubbled up from his lips.

"A cave, Annie, a magic one!"

Finn's words tangled and blurred in his excitement but Annabel was used to the way he spoke. She understood, but she did not want to. Her stomach tightened and her brows lowered, though Finn did not see her frown. He told her how colours that were not real swam across his vision, and how the limestone had scraped across his back. Annabel placed her hand on his back where she had seen the graze last night; she thought he had got it when he struggled against Barra. Finn conjured up the cave of rubies and blood, telling her how the waves whispered in a different voice with each surge and splash. But Annabel heard only choked screams – the same each time. She saw thin fingers scratching frantically on the pale rock. In her waking nightmare, she saw Finn's eyes close and his body sink. She listened to him tell her how he thought of gods and long-dead queens and he did not even realise that the colours that shone before his eyes might as well have been the life leaving him.

He might not remember the two boys who went missing around Nelly's Caves, but they had been in the year above Annabel's at the District School. Dagon Cresta, along with dozens of other fishermen, had joined the initial search. When children were lost, the beaches were always searched first; usually, missing children were found quite quickly, for the bodies floated soon. Often, drownings occurred in the shallows and the searches did not last long. It might have been different in somewhere like District 2 or 7. Dirk had told her that ten years ago they lost a boy from the academy up in the hills and didn't find him until the spring snows melted. _Wasn't rotted at all. Except his face was blue, icy. Of course, it was Fallon and half the other kids who found him first. Fucking mess. You try teaching half a dozen boys who reckon they're scared of bodies in the snow. _As the search went on, Dagon would come home with tight lips and an empty net to take a beer from the fridge. Most stopped searching after a week.

Annabel had seen dead bodies before. It was easy to imagine what Finn's body would look like by the time it was pulled from the tunnel. The relentless force of water and stone would scrape the flesh from his bones more effectively than any thorn tree could. The fish would nip out his beautiful green eyes first. They usually went for the tongue, next. She knew there was no use telling him not to go when she saw the stories shimmering in his eyes. Instead, Annabel leant forwards and took both Finn's hands in hers.

"I need you to promise me something, Finn."

"Okay."

"I mean a real promise, like…" She paused then, to find something of sufficient gravity to hold Finn to his promise. He tended to regard them as only holding while he was watched. To Finn, a promise was as temporary as a sandcastle. He would swear faithfully not to touch the dough his mother left resting, and as soon as she left the room there would be fingerprints in the rising crust. "Like Zeus made to Semele. You know the story?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, you remember that Zeus was in love with Semele, even though she was a mortal and she made him promise her one favour, and he swore by the River Styx to keep it? Then she asked him to show her his true godly-form." Annabel's eyes shone fiercely, as if they contained a little of the god's reflected power. Her Grandda always said stories had a power of their own, and if the teller believed, they could share in it. Annabel thought she had stopped believing. "You remember what happened then?"

"Zeus burnt her up."

"Exactly. He promised to show Semele his form, even though he knew it'd kill her." Annabel did not realise she was breathing heavily. "That's how important his promise was. And that's the sort of promise I want you to make."

"But Dionysus rescued Semele from the Underword-"

"I'm not talking about that. I need you to make a real promise. Tell me you won't go back to the caves without me." Annabel's eyes were hard and unforgiving. She raised Finn's chin with her hand so he had to look her in the face. At first, his eyes were open and honest, but as she held him, he squirmed under the weight of her gaze. Annabel did not release him. "Promise, Finn?"

"I promise, Annie."

They sat there together as the sunrise reached its fiery climax and began to fade into day. Annabel thought of the countless promises Finn had made to her, scattered like broken shells. _I promise, Annie, I won't wait for you at the station anymore. I promise I won't go swimming at shark time. I'll try not to miss you too much. _And Annabel thought of the promises she had made him. She hoped that she had kept them. Nearly four years ago, when summer had faded to autumn and she returned to District 4 for the first time as a victor, Finn had thrown himself through a glass window from fear of her. She had visited him in the _Bombay General _the next day, after the cuts on his face and hands had been stitched and he'd been given a dose of blood that was not his own. Sedna had stayed protectively close to her son when Annabel drew back the curtain around his bed. With her gaze apologetic yet determined, Sedna moved aside to give Annabel room, but she did not go far. She explained that the doctors had given him a strong hit of morphine to calm him down as much as to dull the pain. _He shouldn't have scars; the cuts were clean, _Sedna had said. Her voice had broken, then. _At least not on his beautiful face. _The morphine had made Finn soft and sleepy, and unexpectedly, it had cleared his mind. His eyes had fluttered open and he tried to form her name. There was a cut on his lip, and it was to leave a tiny scar. Annabel's face was still smudged with tears when she had taken Finn's hand, careful of the bandages that looked so white against his skin. _I promise, Finn, _she had whispered, _I promise I'll never hurt you. _

Finn did not think of promises, but of limestone and jewel-bright anemones. He knew that Annabel could not hold her breath quite as long as he could, but he was sure she could make it, too. He looked serious for only a moment, then, he glanced up and grinned broadly.

"Can we go now?" he asked. He lurched to his feet.

"Not today, Finn." Annabel looked down at her hands.

"Tomorrow?"

"I'm going back to the Capitol this afternoon." Her voice was dull. Seneca would be too busy to see her for the duration of the games, and besides, she would have two children to mentor. By lunchtime, she would be speeding north and west with two frightened, nervous tributes in tow.

"You always go," Finn said quietly. He dropped back to the sand and put his hands on her knees. Looking up, his thin face was open and heartbroken. "Do you have to?"

"You know I do."

"Can't I come?"

A hard lump rose in Annabel's throat. Looking over Finn's head, she followed a gull as it swept over the point of the little cove. They had nests stashed away in the rocks, where feral cats could not get at them. She swallowed firmly. "You can't, Finn."

"But, I'd be good." His voice was small and hurt. As she watched, he seemed to shrink in on himself, but his eyes were so wide. Annabel pulled him to her and held him so tightly her arms ached. Finn did not squirm. He held her just as tightly.

"Finn, you can't come. I promise you wouldn't like it there."

The sunrise had faded from the sky by the time Annabel turned the car down the Esplanade. Finn sat quietly, his knees drawn up until his heels rested on the seat. As usual, he was barefoot. Annabel checked the time and a new tightness came to her mouth. Soon, her makeup artist would erase all the lines from her face. She would have preferred it was Portia; the girl, near her own age, still spoke with a soft, District 8 accent, though she did not talk over much. Annabel preferred her gentle silence to chatter; when it came to waxing the hair between her legs, Annabel always asked for Portia.

"Can you teach me to drive?" Finn asked unexpectedly. He was watching the way her hands spun the wheel loosely; the car took the sweeping curve and came back alongside the beach. "Mum and Rhyne and Jarrett won't."

"But then I wouldn't be able to drive you, Finn," she said, hoping that would be enough. She looked over at him sadly. _Finn behind the wheel, _she thought with a shiver, _there'd be carnage if he managed to get it out of the driveway. _"Besides, you shouldn't take a car onto the beach, and you love the beach too much."

"Oh." His lips slightly parted, he considered her answer. Somewhere in the tangle of his mind – so different to hers, to most – it found a place, and he nodded. "Annie, it's the Reaping today."

"I know." She kept her eyes to the road. "Don't be worried. They won't call you."

"But they picked _you." _His eyes were so big in his face. The seatbelt strained as Finn rocked forward and back. Annabel reached across to put a hand on his knee. He stilled, for now. "Annie, I –"

"Finn, it'll be fine. Trust me. They won't call you, okay?" she said firmly. "I made sure of it. Do you trust me?"

Finn swallowed the lie and his features smoothed out. He nodded, and sat still again. They drove back to the Shoreline, and Annabel kept one hand in Finn's. He toyed with her fingers, bending and flexing them delicately. He put her hand to his cheek and closed his eyes. When they pulled up outside his house, Annabel had to blink back tears. She saw that Jarrett's ute was not parked out the front; most peacekeepers worked on Reaping Day. So Annabel and Finn leant against the car as the waves rushed up the sand, just around the corner. A rangy looking cat watched them from a clump of saltbush and licked sea spray from its whiskers. They leant on each other, too. For a time, they were quiet, but Annabel checked her watch and her sigh was audible. It was time. The reporters would swarm around Damash Square and the Victor's Village, wanting interviews. _Why has it been four years since District 4 had a victor? Do you know who's volunteering this year? You've made no secret of your friendship with some of District 2's victors; how do you feel that your tributes will likely be against Fallon Lockyer? Who designed that dress? _She and Finn held each other, then. Annabel was willing to be late.

They were near the same height now, but Finn turned his face against her shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. "Annie? Will they Reap you?"

"Finn, don't be silly. They've already done all they can to me." Once more, she hoped he would be satisfied with the lie.

* * *

><p>Each time she looked up, Annabel met her own eyes. She supposed it was better than seeing frightened children. A hundred and more banners decorated the square and most showed her face. Her frozen smile and the gleam in her eye said, <em>come on, you'll like it, <em>but as she looked out over the heads of the crowd, her smile was tight. The day was already hot and she would sweat off her makeup if the ceremony did not end soon. Annabel felt guilty for the thought. Somewhere in the crowd, at least one life was ticking away, set to a clock as relentless as the tides. She was not alone on the stage, and from the set of Leda's mouth, she knew she was not the only one to hear the soft ticking. Beside her, Leda's white dress gathered the sunlight and shone – a star, too bright to look at. Annabel wore green and hoped it was a coincidence that it was the same shade as Finn's eyes when they filled with tears. Leda reached out to brush Annabel's hand.

"It'll be okay. There's thousands of names in there," she whispered. "Don't worry –"

Then, Evan, the escort, began to speak. A small man, he was tall in his heeled boots, with the authority of the Capitol clinging to him. Leda fell silent with her hands in her lap. Annabel searched the crowd, but it was impossible to pick out Finn or any of her friends from the _Docks. _The children were packed as tight as stock. They smelt of fear-sweat in the sun. District 4 was called a career district, and Annabel had believed it until she talked to some of the mentors from 2. _In 2, _Dirk said, _none of the kids are scared. It's a bloody holiday, except for two of them. _Evan's high-heeled boots clicked across the stage like a slow heartbeat. He reached into the storm of slips, his face glistening with glitter rather than sweat. The piece of paper looked so small in his hand. It was anything but; it had a face and a family. Some children dreamed of sailing past the point where the maps all ended. Others wanted to be mermaids. Evan unfolded the slip and raised his eyebrows as if he knew the child whose name was written there. Annabel ground her teeth. As he clipped back to the centre of the stage, Annabel was suddenly irritated; why did he persist with the theatrics?

The whole stage was wired to catch his voice and throw it to the crowd. By the time she realised she was angry – really angry – Evan had read the name and there was movement in the section for sixteen-year-old girls. The children there stirred and tried to make room for the one of their number who was quite suddenly marked – different. Suddenly, the air felt thick and ugly. Annabel looked to Evan's face and saw hard lines under his powder and glitter. She did not know who was set to volunteer this year, or if they would. _Sixteen's alright, _she told herself, though she knew she was wrong. _Could be worse – younger. _She remembered a terrified girl, standing on the stage with all the courage of fourteen years, and nobody had volunteered for her.

"I volunteer." Tall and busty, dressed in her navy and gold uniform, Nerissa stepped into the aisle. She walked quickly to the stage and the cameras honed in on her curves as much as the determined smile she wore. At the steps she paused to flick a glossy sheet of hair over her shoulder. She tossed another smile. The Capitol audiences watching from their parties and their bars took note. But Annabel felt cold. She did not try to catch her friend's eye.

"Well, well, young lady. A volunteer! What's your name?" Evan oozed over Nerissa's hand.

"Nerissa Fuller." She answered with another confident smile, tossed away easily. Annabel gritted her teeth. _You throw away your life as easily as you smile, _she thought. The temperature seemed to have risen a few degrees since Evan had read the first name. Annabel shifted uncomfortably, her hands clenched in her lap.

"Nerissa Fuller," Evan repeated. He spoke with a Capitol accent – all stretched syllables and flourishes. His sand-silk trousers, the same style he had worn to pull Annabel's own name, fluttered in a sudden hot breeze. In the crowd, most flung a hand over their eyes; there were burning, stinging grains of sand in the wind. Evan cleared his throat. "District 4, your first, gorgeous volunteer!"

Annabel sat with her eyes narrowed as their escort pulled the second slip. He never had a chance to read the name there. This time, the volunteer shoved his way out of the crowd and took the aisle quickly. He squared his shoulders and his chin jutted forward strongly.

"Barra Runyan," he called before Evan could ask. The microphones caught his voice and the arrogance in it. Annabel could have kissed him then; his name was not Finnick Odair. The thought was followed by a surge of guilt and confusion. _Maybe Barra won't get the chance to hurt Finn again, _she thought. She wanted to quell the thought, but was not strong enough. So Barra and Nerissa shook hands and Evan presented them like a lot at an auction. They looked at each other as if the cameras were blind; there was hate and spite and lust in their gazes. Annabel wasn't sure if she saw fear in Nerissa's eye. Then, to the cheers of the crowd – they were relieved rather than proud – mentors and tributes filed off the stage. Annabel swallowed. _One of you, maybe both, will never see Damash Square again._


	5. Chapter 5

As the doors of the train closed, the cheers of the gathered crowd and the last shouts of the reporters were cut off. There was a silence, and in it, Annabel's heart shattered. She looked down at her feet as if she expected to see the pieces littering the lush carpet. Tears pricked at her eyes and she felt sick. While the others – tributes and mentors – entered the carriage, Annabel stood by the closed doors. They were locked fast now, but beyond them she had seen Finn standing on the platform. _Not standing,_ _struggling to get to me. _She had seen him, just for a moment, just enough time for her to see the wild look on his face as the doors closed. He had a backpack clutched tight in his hand as he fought to get to the doors. Annabel hoped the peacekeeper holding him back had been Jarrett, but she could not tell – at least the man had looked as if were being gentle. Finn had been fighting like a demon. Would the desperation leave him as the train started to move? This morning on the beach, his voice had been soft and hurt. _Can't I come with you? _She slapped her hand against the door and leant her forehead on the cool metal. Then, she heard the laughter.

"Fucking mess," Barra sneered. He had snuck back to see her anguish and now he stood too close; Annabel could _feel_ him laugh as well as hear him. "Look at that –"

"Don't you dare!"

She did not slap; she punched. Annabel hit hard. Barra stumbled back through the doorway into the main carriage and Annabel followed him. Her face was set in a scowl, and he grinned fiercely. They were both spoiling for a fight; Barra was always ready, and for Annabel, it had been too long. Barra's knuckles found her lip and she tasted blood. It made her furious. They fought, then, before the Games had begun. The train was barely gathering speed. Annabel wished for her blade and her hair flew in wild, furious disarray. Barra struggled to get at her, to give her bruises to match the one forming on his jaw. He would have done more, if he could.

When Merit and Leda heard the thuds of bodies against the carriage walls, they came back to the vestibule with cold anger in their eyes. Quite suddenly, Annabel remembered that they were killers, too, just as she was, and like Barra would have to become. It was enough to make the boy and girl break apart, panting, to dab at the blood on their faces. Merit strode forwards and grabbed Barra's arm. He was rougher than he had to be when he twisted his shoulder and held it there. Leda was gentler with Annabel, but her eyes were narrowed in anger.

"Stop acting like fucking children," Leda snapped. Her white dress had ridden high up her thigh, but none dared to comment; her eyes flashed.

"Get to your room and stay there." Merit gave Barra a shove –hard – and he stumbled. Nerissa was standing in the doorway, and she looked like she wanted to hit someone, too. She was not sure who. "You too. Down the hall. Now."

"Don't–" Annabel narrowed her eyes.

"I can't tell you what to do," Merit snapped. "You won't listen. I've tried to tell you about Crane-"

"Enough," Leda sighed. She let go of Annabel and shook her head. Her anger was fading to disappointment, and Annabel did not try to meet her eye. "Just go and calm down. We'll talk when you're acting like adults."

It was an hour later that Annabel knocked on Nerissa's door. She had picked at the rich lunch set out for them, but her meal had not sat well with the guilt and anger that now swirled in her belly. She let herself in. Nerissa sat by the window; she was watching the blur of gold, green and blue that was her fading home. Annabel noticed that she had changed her navy uniform for a long, flowing dress of pale gold. It hugged her hips and breasts in all the right places. _Once, _Annabel thought, _I was so jealous of you. Well, I wouldn't be in your position for all the world. Not again. _Nerissa did not turn her head; the landscape flashed in her eyes.

"I'm sorry about – about before. It was poor form," Annabel murmured. "Can I?"

"Barra probably deserved it." She shrugged. "He usually does."

They smiled tightly and Annabel sat in the other corner of the window seat. Both girls had their knees drawn up, and Annabel did not realise she mimicked Finn's posture as he had sat in her car this morning, also watching the coast slip past. A silence began to stretch – elastic – and Annabel was afraid she lacked the courage to speak first. Nerissa had always been the more confident of the pair.

"We haven't talked much." Nerissa looked down at her hands. She coiled up the gold chain and tags in her palm and she made a fist about them. "Not properly, anyway."

"We haven't." Annabel sighed.

They took turns to look out the window, and at each other's faces. Nerissa's eyes were dry but there was a tightness around her mouth. The tears were hiding just behind her eyes. Annabel was calmer now; perhaps talking to her old friend reminded her of when she really was a child, before the Reaping. Nerissa was right; they had not spoken much over the last four years. Nerissa felt that they were separated now; she saw Annabel atop a podium and knew that she herself stood at the bottom. She worried that soon she would be buried in the dirt beneath it. Annabel had barely had the time for her family, let alone her friends.

"I didn't know you were going to volunteer."

"I wasn't going to." Nerissa dropped her chain and spread her hands in a rueful gesture. She looked up at her old friend with barely a hint of the confident smile she showed at the Reaping. It was like a faltering bulb. She had used it up. When she spoke, her voice quivered. "Then the new regulations came in last year, and it got harder for Dad to harvest – fuck it, steal – wild pearls. I had the training, so, you know…"

They sat side by side and Annabel took her hand. The gesture brought the two girls back to the _District School_ before they began training, when they still played 'careers and tributes' with swords and daggers of driftwood. Nerissa started to cry. They were quiet tears – grownup tears for a very grownup problem that was faced by twenty-four children each year. There was not one child who did not give in and weep in the short days from Reaping to the Bloodbath. Some barely stopped. Gently, Annabel held Nerissa's hand and they both looked out the window at the blurring coast. Very soon, the train would change its course – north to northwest, and they would leave the beaches far behind. They did not speak until the golden sand turned to grass and scrubby trees outside the window. Then, it was Nerissa who broke the silence once again.

"So, a gamemaker, huh?" She attempted a smile that fell a little short of the mark. As young girls, they played the same game; _I'll tell you who I like if you go first. _"I'll tell you about Barra if you'll tell me what it's like with a gamemaker."

"You won't pass it around?" Annabel wished she had not spoken. She flushed; in a week, that might not matter. She laughed nervously. "Well, I guess he's like them all; he thinks he's a bit better than he is. Nice, though. You wouldn't think so, but he is."

"So…how _is _he?" Nerissa grinned. When Annabel giggled and indicated a length with her forefinger and thumb, Nerissa joined her. She raised her eyebrow. "So you mean gamemakers don't have _everything?"_

They laughed together as the train hummed quietly. In the poorer districts, the Reaping ceremonies hurried one after the other. Annabel told Nerissa about how Crane had a balcony that overlooked the third circle of the city and sometimes she would stand naked there and dare anyone to see her. She did not mention that such a photo would be worth hundreds. Giggling, she said that the gamemaker was shy, and he always pulled on a pair of pants before he joined her there. Perhaps he was afraid that he would lose the respect and fear he cloaked himself with if someone saw goose bumps on his arse in the morning air.

"I guess he's like all blokes. Thinks he's fantastic when he's average," Annabel said.

"How many guys _have_ you been with?"

"Not telling. It's your turn." _It'd shock even you, _Annabel thought. _And that's just the number of men. _There had been women, too, and things that had taken their cosmetic surgery so far that Annabel wasn't sure they were people anymore. She pushed her lips out in a laughing pout to cover the surge of shame she felt at the number. "Tell me about Barra. You don't have to be kind."

"You know we only lasted a year?" Annabel nodded and Nerissa continued. "Well, don't – actually, you can tell him. He wasn't much good at all."

"Over pretty soon?"

"Hardly felt it. He looked so stupid when he came." Both girls laughed with savage, ugly pleasure. They could be forgiven. Nerissa slowly bent her index finger as if it was drooping and they laughed harder. "He's do this stupid thing with his fingers and it just hurt. He only every found the spot by accident."

"Sounds about right."

"He just wanted to do it all the time!" Nerissa complained. "Even after, he'd be hard again in a few minutes. Ewww."

"I know about that."

"Well, go on, who's the best one you've had?" Nerissa prompted. "I saw you in a magazine with…what was his name? That newest victor from 2."

"Avery? No. That's just mentor stuff. He's into boys, anyway." Annabel held up her hands. She spoke quickly, to cover her embarrassment. "There was this one guy…"

They shared stories while the train carried them north and west and while the girls laughed, Barra paced around his room and found his way to the dining carriage. It was empty but for an avox girl. He eyed her off as she stood, ready to serve and pour, and made a rude gesture with his tongue and two fingers. The young woman's face remained blank. When Barra stepped up close to her she did not flinch; after losing her tongue there were worse things than a teenage boy's sticky hands over her breasts. Barra pinched her nipple through her plain, white shirt, determined to get a reaction. His face was all ugly, excited lines. He pushed his hand down the front of her skirt and finally the young woman closed her eyes as if calling for strength. She still did not flinch. When Barra heard a door open in the next carriage, he withdrew his hand, and smirking, wiped it on her white uniform. _Later, _he mouthed, as if he too did not have a tongue.

By the time the two girls had finished their stories District 4 was far behind. The train took the ugly grey border crossing into 5 and then mentors and tributes gathered to watch the Reapings. For the most part they were replays. Nerissa and Annabel, their faces flushed from giggling, sat close together. Barra took a low armchair, his leg hooked over one arm and the fabric of his uniform pants pulled tight over his groin. When Nerissa's gaze fell there, she wrinkled her nose. Merle and Merit watched their tributes, and their youngest fellow victor. Leda turned the screen on with a clap of her hands and one wall faded away. Soon, they all looked at the grim, barren square and the grey people that made up District 12.

"Let's skip this rubbish," Merit muttered.

Annabel knew well the drill, just as she knew what 12's tributes would look like before they took to the stage. She would not start paying real attention until the evening, when they would watch District 1 and 2's ceremonies live. Merit swiped his hand before his face and they watched the square in District 12 blur. The escort there, Effie, was a pink smudge against the coal-grey buildings and sky. _Doesn't District 12 ever get the sun?_ Annabel thought. _Can't they afford it?_ Two children who would have been pale but for the clinging layer of dirt took to the stage. They looked as if they had been collected from the gutter that morning, stray kittens, not drowned in a bag with a brick, but sent to the sharp swords of the careers. The boy, younger than his partner, stumbled on the first rickety step up to the stage. Nobody moved to help him. When the tributes stood side by side, Merit gave voice to what they were all thinking.

"Bloodbath."

Flowers decorated the stage in District 11. Huge glazed jars, taller than the tributes, rested on each corner like sentinels. The flowers were waxy white – a curl of petal and a bright yellow style spearing straight up. Someone had the gall to decorate the Reaping stage with funeral lilies. Two older children were chosen – seventeen and eighteen – and took the stage quietly. The crowd watched; their eyes, as dark as their skin, were closed down.

"We've seen enough," Merit said quickly, and he scrubbed the footage forwards. "Keep an eye on them. They look strong enough."

And so the train sped on through District 5, and they pushed relentlessly through the Reapings. Even Barra was quiet. Usually, it was Merit who offered an opinion, and his words fell dully, like a judge's sentence. Annabel wondered if the tributes knew they were being dismissed before they entered the arena; some might as well have been walking ghosts. _Did Brutus and Enobaria and all the others say that about me? _she asked herself. _They mustn't have given up completely. They let me into the Career alliance. _Dirk had argued for her, feeling a stir of sympathy for the girl the same age as his nephew. In District 10, both tributes were called under the same surname: cousins. _What did their parents do to deserve that? _Annabel wondered. Somewhere, there would have been a rumour spread, a leaflet printed or a shipment of beef that went missing and found its way to the wrong table. Whatever it was, it was enough to hang a noose about the necks of both children. Merit warned that they looked strong, and would work as a team, but Annabel knew that District 10 would not be allowed a victor this year.

The pair in District 9 were chosen against a background of rippling gold. The wheat fields in the distance looked luxurious and plentiful, but there were also open swathes that had been harvested already. The fields with their broken stalks looked naked and ugly, and were a far more appropriate symbol for the children on the stage than the glorious gold in the distance. Merit dismissed the pair with a shake of his head. In District 8, he did not even need to do so much. While the rail-thin boy walked to the stage, the girl did not move. Instead, she huddled on the ground and rocked back and forth when the other girls in her pen pushed and pinched at her cruelly. A pair of peacekeepers shoved their way through and lifted the girl by her arms. She hung limp and sobbing in their grasp. It was not unheard of for a child with a broken mind to end up in the arena. Annabel's thoughts flashed to Finn.

She was almost relieved to move to the ceremony in District 7. There were huge warehouses and sheds in the background, filled with raw hewn logs. _Fallen bodies, _Annabel thought, _like our nets of gasping fish. _The mentors and tributes sat forwards then, for though the girl who was chosen was sixteen and thin, her partner looked strong. Annabel was willing to bet that the scars she could see on his arms came from working hard with an axe and saw in the plantations. Merit told the tributes to mark him. Barra's leg slipped off the arm of the chair and he leant forwards, too. There was a viscious gleam in his eye, and Annabel recognised it; he saw a threat in Gaige Covess, and he was quite ready to face it. Twenty years ago, or more, a tribute had been killed in training. It was not an accident, or a fall, but it was made to look like one and the child who had stabbed a Career over their lunch did not survive far into the Games.

Most of the tributes chosen were at least sixteen, as was the norm. The youngest was a girl from District 3, fourteen and trembling. Annabel wondered if she had looked so frightened up on the stage. She knew that she had not. Then, it was time for the live Reapings. Barra and Nerissa did not need their mentors' prompting to pay attention. Annabel too tensed and then flushed with guilt as she remembered that she would not be fighting these people; she was already safe. District 1 lacked a city square, at least it was so far from the model used in most other districts that it seemed so. There, the tributes were chosen from a crowd standing on a Capitol-style plaza. After all, District 1 was simply an outpost of the Capitol; built on the south side of District 2's southern border – the Granite Hills – it was two small cities, a short train ride from the Capitol. And there, Capitol fashions were followed until they became a way of life. It had begun as a few specialised workshops, making fine garments not trusted to the huge factories in District 8. Annabel had heard most of the mentors from 2 sneer at District 1 at some point; they called it a city of lapdogs, as they themselves were called by others. Too small, a bare 100,000 people, most of who had grandparents from the Capitol, District 1 followed the Capitol trends in an attempt to separate itself from the larger districts that hemmed close. 2, 7 and 3 were home to eight million between them. Of course, Annabel had known little until she spoke to her fellow victors, for true geography was not taught in schools.

A reporter with feathered wings tattooed where his eyebrows should have been spoke to Cashmere while the sun sank low into the western arm of the Granite Hills. They only were demoted to the arbitrary title – hills – when compared to the brutally tall Kelly Range to the east. Cashmere was all curves and curls and white teeth. Annabel never warmed to her, even when they had been nearly naked and kissing for the camera.

"Cashmere, my darling, can you tell us who'll be volunteering?" The reporter asked the question as it was fed into his ear by a tiny microphone.

"Oh!" Cashmere laughed, tinkling like little bells. Annabel wrinkled her nose; she had heard the woman laugh full-throated and masculine, joking with her brother. She and Gloss were always too close; it had not taken Annabel long to realise they were fucking. Once, Annabel was with Gloss in a couple's bedroom. He was quieter than his twin, and gentler. The next time she saw Cashmere, the older woman's eyes had been hard as rock. _Like I had a choice to fuck your brother, _Annabel had hissed.

"I can't name names, but I can say that I've worked with both our volunteers personally. You'll be _very_ impressed."

The ceremony was more scripted than any they had watched so far. With the sun sinking low, bright spotlights blared on around the corners of the plaza and glowed in pinks and oranges as if trying to out do the sunset to come. Against them, a chubby girl walked to the stage and shook hands with the escort. Her face showed only the nerves expected of a seventeen-year-old on national television. Volunteers were called for, and the camera was already honing in on the oldest girls, standing at the back of the plaza. The spotlights were bright on them and they shone on the gold of the volunteer's hair. She said nothing, but took to the aisle with a soft sway to her hips. And she was beautiful in the fading afternoon light. Her hair was as long as Annabel's, loose and flowing silken down her back. There was not an ounce of fat on her; her high, round breasts were fake. She was tall in silver heels to match her dress.

"My name is Sophi Raymond, but I prefer Silk," she said as she set her foot on the first of the sweeping stairs up to the central stage. Silk's voice was rich and deep for a girl. It had been cultivated. The chubby girl on stage smiled and left by another set of stairs at the back, but the camera did not follow her. "I am your volunteer."

Soon, she was joined by a boy, eighteen with hair of the palest, softest blonde. He ascended the stage with the same luxurious grace as his partner, and they stood there while the pink and orange lights played sunset an hour early. Annabel thought it cruel to hasten time for the tributes – each moment was to be savoured. She remembered that she had spent much of what she thought would be her last few days crying. Lux Sabins was as lean as his counterpart and it was not a coincidence he wore silver. Like in the other Career districts, the volunteers were usually selected months or weeks in advance. _You're wearing the colour of second place, _Annabel thought.

"Pretty." Barra grinned. "Both of them."

"They'll have been training longer than you." Merit kept his eyes to the screen. There, Silk and Lux smiled and waved as they left the stage. "Take them seriously. They'll most likely be your allies, and they _will_ be two of your biggest rivals."

The Reaping in 2 was always saved for last. Each year it took place before the glorious mountain sunset. Anticipation built through the day, and in the Capitol, though they watched each Reaping, it was 1 and 2 that they looked forward to. District 4's ceremony, scheduled at 11 o'clock to ensure the Capitol citizens could still sleep late, was a highlight, but now came the finale. The sun was setting and no spotlights were needed to make a show of light. Archaically stylised torches had been set down the aisle between the waiting children and on the corners of the stage. The stage was not a temporary structure; it was a dais of black rock, and there were fiery highlights at its heart. Those on the stage stood with their feet in a pool of darkness. Behind them, the peaks loomed. Marble was built right into the foothills of the Kellies. The Capitol was a few hundred miles south, on the other side of the range, and Annabel knew the tributes from 2 would not have long to enjoy the luxury of their train ride.

Dirk Lockyer was wearing black again as he gave a short interview. His voice was gruff, his posture stiff, but Annabel knew that he kept his arms folded over his chest to hide how his hands shook. Then, with the dark mountains and the bloody sunset beginning, the Reaping started. A name was called and a girl stepped from the section for seventeen year olds. She started to walk slowly, from the shadows to the bright pathway of the aisle. One, two, three paces and then she was joined by another girl. In the aisle, they smiled at each other; one smile was warmly grateful, the other thin. They swapped places – one life exchanged for another. The volunteer was tall, her hair dark, though the flickering flames put hints of copper in it. She did not have far to go, for the oldest children were standing at the front this time. Annabel clenched her fists; she could have been Corrin's younger sister, and Annabel knew that she _must_ have the same fate if her own tributes were to have a chance.

"Cyra Hammon," she said. "I volunteer."

The cheers sounded like a rolling avalanche. If there had been snow on the hills, one might have begun. They did not stop until the escort reached into the second great, glass bowl. Then the camera began to swept the group of older boys. Many there wore the black uniform of their academy. Those that did not came from Marble and the surrounding towns, or from the preliminary Reapings in Adamstown, Sanphor and Strutt. No face looked nervous. The screen showed a small inset; Dirk Lockyer stared straight ahead and the image was not large enough to show the tension in his jaw. Just as the camera focused on a particular boy in the crowd, a name was called. It meant nothing. There was a second of resounding silence before the cheering began anew. Nobody heard Fallon Lockyer call out to volunteer, but he looked right into the camera and took the stage. The boy whose name had been called had not even thought of moving.

So the last two tributes of the 69th Games stood tall while their district cheered and the sun set in a crashing display of red and purple and fire. Merit sighed and cut the footage; for a moment, they were all left looking into Fallon Lockyer's deep-set brown eyes. A hint of surprise lingered around his creased brows as if he did not expect all the attention. Then, the screen was a wall once more. Merit got slowly to his feet and stood while the train hummed and sped north. He folded his arms.

"That's everyone you've got to kill if you want to come home."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Warning for femslash, generally unpleasant teenagers, and very mild beastiality through a modified telling of the Greek myth 'Leda and the Swan'. **

It was a cavernous space, the echoes uncanny, and in it bubbled enough nervous energy to set the place ablaze. The shifting of the horses' hooves became a regular tattoo, their snuffling like the breathing of some much larger creature. Some of the tributes took comfort from their steady warmth and their softs lips when they took sugar cubes from trembling palms. So well trained, the horses were relaxed and even the tension that radiated from the tributes and mentors could not make them frisk. There, in the stable, the children waited. They wore costumes, headdresses, mockeries of their homes' industries – or they wore nothing at all. As her heels clicked briskly over the concrete floor, Annabel thought back to four years ago, when she had stood there in a dress of tight, glittering scales. As a child, she had always wanted to be a mermaid, but her fantasy had become a cruel reality and the nation had stared at the shells over her budding breasts. _It could have been worse,_ she thought, as she averted her eyes from the pair from District 12. Their costumes were mining outfits, but they had been taken to with a pair of scissors as if the children had lived through a crushing rock fall. Here, a flash of breast showed, and there half the boy's backside. _Yes, it could have been much worse. _She stopped by the pair of matched palominos that pulled District 4's chariot. While the horses stood placidly, Barra and Nerissa tugged angrily at their costumes. Annabel schooled her expression, for laughter would be the cruellest thing now.

"Can't you do anything about this?" Nerissa asked.

Annabel looked over to where the stylists, Darrnan and Osires stood. For four years, Darrnan had been dressing her in twists of silk, in flowing dresses so sheer that she might as well have been naked for the world, and Annabel had let him. But her eyes narrowed in anger; he had never made her look like a fool. She clenched her fists by her side, but she wanted to tear the shirt from his back and rip away his slacks until he too had to stand with only a twist of seaweed between his legs.

"Sorry, I really can't," Annabel said. She tried to smile, to mimic the flamboyant accent of their escort, Evan. "If you've got it, _flaunt it._"

Real seaweed would not do for the Capitol, so Darrnan and Osires had made their own. Thin tendrils of green, blue and glitter had been twisted together by someone who had clearly never seen the beautiful rippling seagrass that grew from the white sand beneath _Old Pier, _or the dark, monstrous kelp out where the water was deep and cold. It was a child's approximation – gaudy, and so much less real in its attempt to be so. And Barra and Nerissa were adorned in it. _The least you could have done was made a dress from the horrible stuff, _Annabel thought. A few skeins of seaweed were wound around Barra's waist and between his legs, and Annabel hoped it was glued firmly to his skin. _When he steps up into the chariot, everyone's going to see just what they're betting on, _she thought. That was all he wore, and when he tugged pitifully and tried to cover his arse, Annabel felt a strain of sympathy for the first time. Nerissa was little better.

"Here, let me fix something," Annabel murmured. She leant close and eased the fabric over Nerissa's chest so that her nipple was not showing. She gave a small smile. "It'll go for less than half an hour."

"I feel like an idiot," Nerissa said.

"Look at the others."

They laughed, then, at the pair of children from District 3. In a situation of unimaginable violence, year after year, it was one more small act of cruelty. They laughed and knew that others would do the same to them when the chariots began to move. Annabel joined them. If Barra and Nerissa looked foolish, at least they were not pathetic. Annabel had learnt that laughter was much better than pity; pity brought no sponsorship, for it was afforded where hope was not. At least Barra's bare chest was muscled, his thighs strong and hard. Nerissa's stomach was flat, her breasts looked firm and good to touch; the little girl from District 3 was chubby, too young to have developed properly. Her sad little breasts drooped with fat. Though she tried to suck her stomach in, it did little good. She was wearing a tight lab coat that ended just above her soft, white backside and left much of her chest bare. Standing in profile to them, she stroked the flank of her horse. Her partner was staring resolutely to the front. _Maybe he's checking out Cyra in her tight dress, _Annabel thought. At least Barra and Nerissa could maintain an injured sort of dignity, for they had a chance; the pair from 3 might as well have been ghosts in their pale coats.

Barra wolf-whistled then, and the little girl and her partner turned. Tears were shining bright in her eyes; she had been leaning on the horse to hide her face in its mane. Annabel would have glared at Barra, but her protest curdled in her throat and she felt her face set in an ugly sneer. The boy was the sort of thin that came not from a lack of food, but from sitting inside by a screen while other children played and worked. Worse, his cock made a tent of the white coat and Annabel wrinkled her nose; she doubted it could have been his partner's soft, dimpled flesh that brought it on.

"As if he got turned on by _that,_" Nerissa muttered, loudly enough to hear. The little girl turned around and hid her face in the horse's mane again. When she leant forwards, the coat rode up to show her flabby thighs and she tried to pull it down.

"Hey! Fallon!" Barra called nastily. "That little shit's been checking out your arse. Look at him!"

The pair from 2 turned around then; they had been ignoring the other tributes, perhaps rehearsing the advice their mentors gave. _Don't look too excited. Wave, smile, but not too much. Don't look like all the other desperate little kids. You're better than them. _Cyra's dress had nearly as many cut-outs as the costumes of the poor children from 12, though at least for her, it would work to her advantage. Her back and her thighs were all lean muscle, and the dress showed her flat stomach all the way to her navel. Annabel supposed the silvery grey fabric was meant to look like hard granite. Fallon wore much less than his partner; he was dressed as a fighter from a time long dead and lost. A short leather skirt curved up to show a flash of backside, and more, when he turned around quickly. Apart from a pair of sandals laced to his calves, he wore nothing else, but like Barra, he was strong enough to maintain a semblance of dignity; at least it was worth showing off his body. Annabel recognised the anxiety that he tried to cover as he toyed with the gilded spear his stylist had given him. _Like you need another phallic symbol, _she thought. His prep team had left the dark hair over his chest and stomach.

The boy from 3 tried to pull at his coat so it did not stretch over his erection, and he covered himself with his hands. His cheeks flamed. He did not think to climb into the chariot. Barra and Nerissa laughed, and Annabel did not blame them overly; soon, their blades would be cutting, was it so much worse that their laughter did now? She watched Cyra and Fallon turn, confused. After a moment, Cyra sneered and she nudged Fallon. It took him a moment to comprehend. He looked nearly as embarrassed as the boy.

"Fucking perve!" Cyra shouted. She grabbed Fallon's arm and they walked around the front of the glossy pair of bays. She looked at how his cheeks were flushed and rolled her eyes. "Ignore it. He was looking at me, or that fat little slut, anyway."

Then, the cool announcement came, in a voice neither male nor female, and the tributes stepped up to their chariots. Stylists tugged quickly on costumes while mentors passed out tissues and last minute pieces of advice. _Chin up. Smile. Wave. For fuck's sake, stop crying. _The horses stamped in readiness, and then it was nearly time.

"I'll see you soon?" Nerissa called.

"Sorry, I'll be out tonight." Annabel was already hurrying away when the horses began to move.

* * *

><p>The first time that her chattering prep team ripped the hair from between her legs and covered her scent with perfume she had clenched her thighs as well as her teeth. The first time Leda had taken her into her bedroom and explained where she must put her hands and her lips, she had not been able to speak to her mentor for days after. The first time she had taken the three polished steps up to the door, she had been a child. Now, her heels clicked and she swayed her hips with all the authority of a young woman who knew exactly what she had to do, and knew that she was good at it. Sometimes, Annabel hated herself. She had been grateful when Dirk pointed to Haymitch, already drunk at his mentoring station when he should have been planning how to allocate the meagre funds for his tributes. <em>You can hate yourself when you look like him. Now, you're a survivor and you do what it bloody well takes. <em>

Sometimes, Arriane Cratt liked to play games. Sometimes, she liked to do it fast, with no fuss. But she was always particular and would put aside some money for the female tribute from District 4. It had been Leda, and then Annabel who her gifts of bread and weapons had saved. Hoping it would be Nerissa, Annabel went to her. The woman liked her wearing green, and so Annabel did. Her dress showed that Darrnan could make something beautiful, at least, it might have been beautiful if it had not been so sheer that the darkening of her nipples showed. The lush curves and sweeping train, all in emerald green, made the girl think of a meadow at sea. There, the grass was brighter than it ever could be on land, and it swayed and danced with no wind. Little fish like silver coins made it their home, as well as the gently grazing sea cows. She wondered if Arriane would want her to be slow and gentle tonight. Once, Annabel had got it wrong. She was just fifteen and nervous, but soon, her tears had fallen to the lush carpet as she crouched naked on the floor, a gag in her mouth. Arriane had shown her what leather felt like on her raised backside, and the humiliation had stung as sharply as the crop. Annabel had got much better at playing the game since then. As Merit saw her learn and change, the sadness in his eyes had grown.

That was when she had found herself turning to Dirk more often, to spare her own mentor's feelings. Once, they had been eating lunch and she stroked her leg along his beneath the table, forgetting she was not with a client. Annabel had flushed red and dropped her knife, but Dirk had waved it off, _I had to sleep with my brother once. I think I can handle this._

There were candles lit in the long polished hallway, and Annabel saw it stretching into the dimness, and knew that her night would too. She took a moment to call for strength, though she did not know who she asked. Perhaps it did not matter. The hall was empty but for the avox who had opened the door and now gestured silently towards the stairs. They were carved from a dozen forest giants, old cedars and pines that had seen the dark days come and go, and had brought forth leaves through it all. Annabel ran her hand along the smooth rail. She could feel the knots and the strength in the wood, just below the varnish. Over the past four years, she had found that her own strength was hidden close beneath the surface, too. Twenty-three other children had found it in her arena of searing rock and steaming jungle. Even the deranged beast of the Pit had seen her fire as it died.

More candles flickered upstairs. They were the only source of light, and Annabel was surprised to see they were real candles of wick and wax, not holograms. They smelt softly of vanilla and cinnamon. Annabel hoped that she would not feel the hot wax on her skin tonight, and suddenly, the dancing light on the dark wood no longer seemed so beautiful. She pushed aside the thought. There was just one vast room on the upper floor of Arriane's house. For three generations, Arriane's family had overseen the diamond mines and taken their profits. Her home reflected the steady wealth of cold stone, decorated in the kind of style that must be learnt and passed down. There was nothing gaudy to scream of her wealth, but the polished floors, and low, crafted furniture whispered of it quietly. _There could be worse places to do this, _Annabel thought. _But there could be better._ She imagined the sound of waves splashing against the limestone cliffs, and the cool caress of the water against her skin. _Finn would be strong enough to hold me if we were out in the water, _she thought, and she was glad there was little light to show her flaming cheeks. The back of the room was yet lost in dimness and shadows played around the candles. The high, vaulted ceiling was lost in darkess. There, at the back of the room, she knew she would find her client. She spoke to the shadows, and they stirred and stretched.

"I can't see you," Annabel said.

"You will have to find me."

There was just enough light to see the outline of a long, low bed and the woman on it. She lay, stretched sinuously until her dress blended with the soft sheets and she was lost to a pool of darkness. And so Annabel found her. She had been blindfolded before, her hands tied above her head, so she did not mind the dark and the flickering light of the flames. The bed dipped as Annabel knelt down and crawled forwards on her hands and knees. Arriane's eyes were glinted in the dim light, but her face was in shadow. Annabel wondered if she herself looked so demonic; perhaps the darkness brought out a truth in her. She leant forward to kiss the woman's lips. Annabel could taste the paint on them, and soon, it would decorate their skin, too.

"It's nice of you to come."

Arriane's voice was low and rich. She sounded like money and promises. For a little of it, Annabel was willing to work very hard, and Arriane knew it well. During the Games, the President sent his victors on few dates, knowing that they would make their own arrangements and the sponsorship funds they won would go back into the games, and to him. And he was right. Leda and Merle had been busy, and so had Annabel, before the Games even began. Once the killing started they would not sleep a night in their own beds.

"It's nice to be here."

"I've seen your tributes."

It was too dim to read the expression on her face, but Annabel heard the lust in her voice, and she was pleased. Nerissa had looked foolish in her costume of twisted seaweed, but it had done its job well. There would be others, like Arriane, who had not seen the ugly costume, but the tanned flesh it barely concealed. So Annabel leant forwards to catch Arriane's lip softly in hers. The woman was lying on her back, her hands stretched up over her head, and Annabel hovered above her. She kissed the soft skin beneath Arriane's ear and smiled to feel the goose bumps rise.

"Good." She dropped another kiss, slowly, and softly, with just her parted lips. She graced the woman's neck and then the hollow above her collarbone. "You know, Nerissa and I are friends. We used to train together, and we'd swim together, and wrestle…"

Arriane kept her hands above her head and she stretched languidly. She knew well the game, and she liked to play it. She was naked and waiting in the dark, as if she were a treat for the young woman in the green dress she could feel against her skin. Of course, Arriane knew she was a gift of sorts – a gift of bread and medicine and sharp blades in a silver parachute.

"Tell me a story." It was spoken like an endearment, close by the girl's ear, but it was all command.

"I could tell you about Nerissa." Annabel leant forwards so her long hair brushed Arriane's beasts and the slight swell of her stomach. She swayed her head gently and bent for another kiss at the base of the woman's throat. She licked at the hollow there, and when she spoke, her breath cooled it and brought goose bumps to Arriane's skin. "I could tell you about when we snuck away down to the cove…"

"No." Arriane moved for the first time. She raised one hand and tangled it in Annabel's hair. She was not gentle, and she held the girl poised on her hands and knees. Her hold was tight. "No, you are not very good at making stories up. Tell me something you know."

So Annabel turned her head and kissed and sucked at the soft inside of Arriane's arm. The woman released her hair and stretched her arm out behind her head once more. In the dark, Annabel knew the shape of her well. The candles flickered, their light just reaching the bed. And Annabel lay beside Arriane and skimmed her hand down her side, down the curve of her breast. She left it by her hip. Then, she took one nipple in her mouth and waited until it hardened under her tongue. Annabel paused to slip off her dress. In her mind, half a hundred different stories danced, and she knew few compared to Finn, but it was not difficult to pick one to please her client.

_There was a woman more beautiful than any other, but she turned away men though they waited by the gates of her father's palace… _She began her story, then, and the words flowed easily from her tongue. When she told a story, Annabel thought of Finn. Once, she had tried to keep him from her mind as if she did not want to taint the memory of him with the smell of sweat and perfume, but she soon found that she needed help to get through and do as she must. So it was Finn's voice she heard as she spoke, yet she told it the traditional way; sometimes, Finn's stories had endings that would not please.

_Her name was Leda. One night, Leda saw a swan fly past her window, the moon bright on its wings. So she slipped, naked, from her room and went into the gardens of the palace. The swan landed there, in the pond, and it seemed to glow like the moon on the water. Leda went out to it, and she was not cold in the night, and the moon was on her pale skin and the swan's feathers. It came to her, slowly, across the pond. _

Annabel ran her tongue over Arriane's breasts, the drip between them, and then her other nipple. She teased it with her tongue and let her hair sweep over the woman's skin. Arriane sighed softly and arched her back a little, but Annabel drew away. She hovered, teasing in the dark, then licked a wet trail between the woman's breasts and down to her navel.

_Leda lay down, waiting for the swan. She had never seen anything as pure and beautiful as she was, and so she was ready for it. The swan flew from the water and it landed beside her. The girl drew her legs apart and she lay there, on the grass in the moonlight in her father's garden. Then, the swan folded its wings and it stood between her legs._

She kissed the soft skin of Arriane's thighs; her tongue was slow and teasing. The heady scent of spice from the candles mixed with her client's perfume, and something earthier underneath it. With one hand, she drew soft circles on Arriane's hip, supporting herself on her elbow. Then, she let her lips touch, just lightly, between the woman's legs. She drew away again, gently, slowly, kissing the inside of her thighs. When Arriane arched her back, pressing herself to the girl's mouth, Annabel obliged. She circled carefully with her tongue, holding back, until she knew her client was ready. She breathed her warm breath on the centre that would have the woman writhing under her. And Arriane did. She put her hands in Annabel's hair and forced her head down, seeking more contact with the girl's lips and tongue. When Annabel continued her story, she let her breath tickle Arriane's hot skin, and she circled and stroked with her fingers.

_Leda opened herself to the swan as she had never done so for a man. She threw her head back and her hair was silver in the moonlight, and the swan was so pure and white. Its wings beat in the night and Leda cried out in pleasure, and she was not afraid her father would hear for she was sure he would not condemn her for doing something so beautiful. She took the swan inside her. _

Arriane's hands were tight in the girl's hair as she arched her back, and for a moment, the heiress lost control. Annabel smiled against her skin, her breath hot. She looked up with eyes shining mischievously, promising more. Arriane let go of the girl's hair and Annabel lay her head down beside the woman's hip. She trailed her hand lazily over Arriane's cooling skin, between her thighs and up under her knee, waiting, knowing she was not finished for the night. Annabel let her mind drift back to a faraway moonlit pond, and she slipped her fingers down to Arriane's entrance. When Finn told the story, it was a wide flowing river, like the _Carra_ that emptied into Bomb Bay.

"How does it end?" Arriane asked at last. Her voice was softer than usual, and her breath still came quickly. Annabel smiled in the dark, and thought how for all the heiress' diamonds and wealth in the bank, she could bring her to panting disarray with just her lips and her tongue.

"The swan left, and Leda gave birth to a girl. When she grew up, Helen was even more beautiful than her mother. She was so lovely that she started a war that lasted a decade."

"I do not like stories of men." Arriane ran her hand idly through the girl's hair. "But I do like the look of Nerissa. You can ask me for what you need. I might even give it."

As Annabel lay quietly beside her client, she remembered the way that Finn ended the story. _Then, Leda took her knife and cut off the swan's beautiful white wings and washed the blood away in the water. She tied them to her own arms and she flew over the palace walls to a place where she could be alone and free. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Thanks to OnyxJinx for her help with some plot points. Warning for mentions of rape and pedophelia (not explicitly). **

* * *

><p>Annabel lay and looked at the shifting waves, just a foot from her face, and she wished she could smell the sharp tang of salt and hear the gulls cry to each other. She watched the water, but when she reached down to touch it, her hand met the cold floor. The man who came up with the trick of holograms and glass had made a fortune. Since then, he had extended his range so the Capitol citizens could walk upon fire as well as water. She had let a client fuck her last year with her cheek pressed against the illusion of molten rock. Today, the ocean below her feet was calm and blue, the couch like a gently drifting dinghy. If it could mirror her mood, the waves would surge grey and dark and the glass would shatter. She sighed then, and rolled over until her face was against the cool leather of the couch. She thought of the real ocean, and wondered if Cayr Beach was peaceful-green at the foot of the cliffs by her house. It was better to think of the waves, than of her tributes, yet she found their faces kept surfacing in her mind.<p>

The elevator had been soft and silent as she took Barra and Nerissa down to the training centre this morning. They had left early, for Annabel thought it best not to have Barra in a confined space with any of the others in case he started a fight. The elevated dropped smoothly – a well-oiled cog in a machine that would soon see one child standing alone as they learnt to see the world through the red haze of blood and guilt that never really lifted. They had been quiet, dressed in their uniforms of dark red. When Annabel had given her last minute advice – _start with what you're good at – _she expected Barra to undermine her, but he had said nothing. She left them by the wide doors of the underground training centre and her parting words tasted sour on her tongue. _Remember, you're both strong chances. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise. _

And they were strong chances, yet not the strongest. When Barra stopped sneering he could pass for handsome, and when the sponsors compared him to Fallon – all thick jaw, heavy brows and lips parted in a question he had not yet worked out – he would look better. But then they would look at Lux, like one of Fraser's beautiful marble carvings. Most, too, would look past Fallon's rough features and they would see that he was two inches taller than Barra, and stronger. Nerissa was faced with the same problem, for Silk was like something from a Capitol magazine, and Cyra was nearly as muscled as the boys. _That's the problem with being an all-rounder, _Merit had told her, _you're not the best at anything, and that's hard to sell sometimes. _But Annabel was not new to mentoring, and she knew that often, early promise amounted only to a cannon on the first day. Often, the favourites were the first to be lifted, broken, from the arena. _Fallon's odds are 5:1, and Dirk's proud of that, _she thought guiltily.

Barra had plenty of the low cunning that would be useful in any arena. He might have been cruel at times, yet he had the natural sort of confidence that plenty gravitated toward. He knew what he wanted and intended to get it. Often, she had seen other children follow him into trouble, and they went willingly. She knew that he would not go to pieces when the violence started; he had proven that well. Annabel remembered watching several years ago when the boy from her own district had thrown down his sword, still slick with blood from his first kill, and he had hidden in the golden horn while the Bloodbath surged by. He had not been the first to react so. Though, Annabel had never heard about anyone from District 2 coming apart at the seams when they took their first life. She had heard plenty of rumours, and she had often wanted to ask Dirk about them. _Is it true that by the time your tributes get to the arena they're already killers? _

Barra would take charge of the career alliance with little effort. _And if he does, that'll put Nerissa in a better place than if Cyra or District 1 do. _Nerissa had a different kind of cunning, one built on swaying hips and cheeky grins, but Annabel had seen her get what she wanted. Despite their past history, Annabel did not doubt that her tributes would stick together in the arena; district loyalty ran deep. She was sure that they were not indifferent to each other, but she wondered if Barra had volunteered to save his once-girlfriend, or to murder her in the end? She doubted that he was sure himself. Annabel had not had to take her own partner's life, but she had heard his screams echo on the rocks.

_Yes, District loyalty runs deep, _she thought, _but if Nerissa can't win, do you really want it to be Barra?_ Annabel thought of the bruises on Finn's neck, and his glazed eyes, and she knew her answer. _If Barra dies in the arena, I won't cry over him. _At least there was a little peace for her as she admitted it to herself. _I don't want him to be killed, but I don't want him to live, either. _As she lay on the couch, Annabel shivered and she wondered if there really had been gods with the power to decide life and death on a whim.

She pushed the thoughts away then, and as she had done so many times when she lay with her legs open for a client, she went back to the beach. No particular place, it was all her home, and none of it. She walked barefoot there, her feet in the water that swirled around her ankles. On Annabel's beach, the water was always the colour of Finn's eyes, and the clouds never banked dark on the horizon. So she lay on the couch, and she walked along the low tide line and smiled. The waves pulled back, leaving a slick of foam. Annabel kicked it up behind her. When the waves rushed back in, she splashed the spray high up to catch the sunlight and it fell like a shower of diamond. She felt it on her skin and realised she was naked on the beach. And as she lay on the couch, her skirt parted to show her tanned thighs.

On her beach, she could look out to the horizon and see nothing but the magical point where the water and the sky melded. If she had wanted, she could have made a bridge out there, or swum tirelessly until she reached it, but Annabel was content with the sand. When she looked inland, she saw nothing but rolling dunes and coastal wattle. There, it was easier to breathe. Up in the dunes, a passionfruit vine grew impossibly in the sand and she could smell the sweet rot of fallen fruit. There were good, yellow fruit hanging heavy on the vine, but she was not hungry. Perhaps another time. Annabel walked and when she looked back the waves had already claimed her footprints, but she could see another set up ahead. They wavered, stopped and curled around shells and pieces of driftwood. Annabel smiled. She knew she would catch up with Finn soon. And as she looked into the distance, her sight sharpened like a camera lens, or perhaps the beach shifted in her imagination; she saw Finn there, as naked as she was. Annabel did not realise she had slipped her hand down between her legs until a door slammed loudly. She wiped her hand on her dress and rolled over.

Leda had come from a date; her dress swished about her ankles and the slightly bitter smell of sweat and cologne clung to her skin. She dropped onto the couch opposite Annabel, two sailors, clutching their pieces of a shipwreck and drifting without the strength to fight the open ocean. _That's not what Mags says, _Annabel thought, _or Jevon, Merit, Dirk, Beetee, Haymitch, and half the others. _Yet Annabel could not help but think that even though Beetee had hid his antispyware all through the tower, his children would still die by the end of the week, spurred on by the other would-be rebels. _Mags says we're waiting for the right time, but I bet she's been waiting for seventy years. _

"You've been even busier than normal," Annabel said.

She rolled onto her side to face the older woman, but Leda rested on her back. Her eyes looked through the ceiling and she did not see it. With her hair hanging loose around her shoulders she was still beautiful, though eight years of being a victor had put tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. There was a bracelet of moonstones around Leda's wrist, and Annabel had not seen it before. She wondered why Leda was collecting her own fee when they were seeking sponsorship.

"Sorry?"

"You've been busy," Annabel said again. "I've hardly seen you."

Leda kept looking at the ceiling, and Annabel wondered what she saw there. She twisted the bracelet on her wrist as if it were a cuff, and Annabel did not think she was imagining home. _Will I look so tired, one day? _she thought.

"Yes, I suppose I have," Leda murmured. She rolled onto her side and faced the girl. "If you could get out of this, would you?"

"Out of what?"

"Being a victor. Being sold." She sighed. "You haven't been doing this as long as I have."

"You don't get to stop, I guess, until Snow thinks you're too old. You don't mean – "

"No, nothing like that," Leda said hastily. "No, I mean, if you had a way, would you do it?"

There were some victors who had been allowed to go back home to live quietly, some who came only to the Capitol to mentor once a year, and Annabel was jealous of them. Plenty had come from the arena so broken that they were shunted back to the districts before their wounds had even finished healing. Shira Brax, from District 2, had dark haunted eyes and a smile that was beautiful and unpredictable. Often she was cruel. When she came from her arena, she had been sold like so many others, and for a time she coped. She even managed to maintain her relationship with her boyfriend from long before the Games. Then, back in District 2, she had bitten his tongue off as they tangled in bed. Now, she came to the Capitol only to mentor, for her mind sharpened when she looked at the children and thought of the best way that they could kill. Annabel knew that Dirk had made a deal with Snow some eighteen years ago, had done him a favour, and he had not been sold since. Something in Dirk's tone when he spoke of it did not invite her to ask. Sometimes she wondered if the nastier rumours were true and Dirk _had_ killed his brother at Snow's request. Annabel thought of what she could do if she was sent home. _I'd get Finn a boat, _she thought. _He's always wanted one of his own, and I've never got around to it. We could paint it together. _

"I guess I would," she said quietly.

"I thought so."

When she was alone again, Annabel's thoughts drifted and her hand skimmed up her thigh. The time, she did not think of Finn's childish hips and shy smiles. She thought of Seneca's sure hands. It was with a jolt that she realised she missed the gamemaker.

_She was fifteen, nearly sixteen, when the dates stopped ending with a kiss by the car door. Soon she was led inside and the dates stretched long into the night. Often she barely contained her tears until she got back to the car. Her avox drivers could offer no comfort. Her appointments came in an envelope scented with rosewater. Plenty of victors still trembled at that scent, years after they had been deemed to old to be sold anymore. But Seneca's invitation was by phone, and he asked her where she wanted to go for breakfast. With clients, there was never even the semblance of a choice. Annabel was flustered to be asked, so she suggested the café he had taken her to once last year. Annabel picked out her own clothes and Portia only added a touch of colour to her lips. Seneca asked her what she wanted to order – some of her clients did not even offer her that much. And then, while swifts fluttered around the eaves of the café, he told her he just wanted to check she was alright. He said that it was not a system he chose, but one he was born into, and Annabel believed him. She relaxed and watched the birds. When they met next, Seneca put forward a café set in the rock gardens, as if he cared for her opinion. He had coffee, and she hot chocolate among the vibrant camellias, and Seneca asked her if she was keeping her head above water. And even though she was booked that night for a double date with District 2's Avery Sinclare, she smiled at the question. She kissed him when they went for a walk among the leathery leaves. She kissed him because he had not tried to touch her first. _

_They were in his living room when he tipped her chin up for a kiss and pulled away to ask her if it was okay. And because he asked, it was. He told her that with him, she could do only as much as she was comfortable with. For the first time, she liked the feel of someone else inside her. Annabel knew it was not from love, but because she had given her permission. She believed that meant something to Seneca. He was gentle with her. They touched each other at her pace and she had her first orgasm under his fingers. She would never count the time that Leda showed her what it was like so that she could fake it for her clients. The next time, in his bed, she fell asleep after. With her clients, Annabel lay awake and hoped they would not feel her tremble. _

_A year later when Seneca confessed that he really wanted to tie her up, she was comfortable enough to say no. He said nothing more of it. It saddened her that everyone except a few of the other victors thought he was paying for her. After all, gamemakers did get heavy discounts. But it would not do to risk allegations of cheating. Annabel kept going back to him because it was her choice. If after three years he was not quite as gentle as he was when they started, Annabel did not mind because she still chose it. _

* * *

><p>The doors to the training centre were shut fast. Down here, below the level of the street, the construction was stark and practical. Annabel thought it was the most unadorned room she had seen in the Capitol. She remembered the rows of spears and the twisted ropes hanging from the ceiling, the trainers that watched from the sidelines and the gamemakers who sat in the raised platforms along all sides. Their eyes had crawled over her skin. She had thought Crane as bad as any of them, then. She was not the only one to get there early. Effie, the escort for 12, lurked near the elevators, perhaps feeling uncomfortable around the victors, or knowing that her presence was not wanted. Haymitch must be drunk again, for most of the other children would be greeted by their mentors, not their escorts. Bruises would be sympathised over and nervous smiles exchanged, but for many mentors, the main reason to go down to the training centre was to take a look at the other tributes.<p>

Annabel saw Dirk standing on his own. Once more, his arms were folded across his chest, and his face was set. Until she saw Fallon at the Reaping, she had not realised how much he looked like his uncle. Annabel wondered if there was some credit to the rumour that Dirk had fooled around with Fallon's mother. Somehow, she could not imagine Dirk unclothed. _He probably keeps a knife on him even when he's in the shower, _she thought. She walked over, then, and her steps sounded more confident than she felt. In her heels, she was dressed to go out on a date once she had seen her tributes back to their apartment.

"I guess they're all old enough to find their own way back." Annabel smiled.

"They're all kids," Dirk said gruffly. "You too."

"I just wanted to say, well, Nerissa's my friend."

"Alright."

"But…but if she can't win, then I want Fallon to."

Dirk turned to face her properly. He had been looking hard at the closed doors, and it was not difficult to guess who he had been thinking of. Annabel had rarely heard him speak well of Fallon; most of the time he berated his nephew, but he couldn't quite say his name without a softening to his voice.

"You've got two tributes," he said.

"I know."

The doors opened then, and Annabel was glad she did not have to justify herself. It was hard enough to make the admission out loud, yet; perhaps it was better than keeping it twisted inside. In her grandfather's stories, there was power in thought, and the evil eye and the black spot were strong on the hearts of men. She shook her head. Deep down, she knew that Barra was well aware that the only reason she had not hit him again was that very soon he would be facing worse. Once, old Mags had told her that holding onto anger was slow poison, and she had imagined a taint seeping into her blood, but now she could not forget Finn's bruises. She would not forgive.

The tributes spilled out the doors, then; it was one of the last times they would stand all together. In a few days, when the gong sounded, they would run. Already, the youngest few looked nervous. The pair from District 12 dragged their feet, walking close together, and Annabel could see them talking quietly. Morbidly, she wondered if they were talking about which of the careers would be more likely to kill them. Then, she saw Barra and Nerissa. Nerissa waved cheerfully, and Annabel smiled back; she knew that it was just another way to intimidate the other tributes, by seeming at ease. Barra, too, walked easily, as if he did not see the others. But Annabel saw the bruises that splashed across his jaw and darkened one of his eyes. Her face curved into a nasty smile that was hard to quell. Fallon and Cyra were last out the doors, and they too were talking. Annabel watched Cyra throw her hands up as if in exasperation and quicken her pace. Fallon trailed behind her. It didn't surprise Annabel to see that he had a bruise spreading across his jaw.

"Come on, let's get going," Annabel said. "I made sure there'd be lobster at dinner tonight."

She caught Dirk's eye and he nodded. At the bank of elevators, they headed to different ends, and Annabel was glad when the doors slid open with a soft chime. When they closed, it was quiet. She folded her arms below her breasts and then quickly dropped them to her side; she did not want Barra staring into her cleavage. So she gathered herself, and she met his challenging gaze. Nerissa watched them both, and a small smile played around her lips. Annabel had always hated how her friend thrived on drama and gossip. She took a breath and felt ten, twenty, countless years older than her tributes, for they were still children, and she knew she was not.

"Who started it?" she asked. Barra raised his chin and looked down at her, and Annabel noticed the smudge of a bruise on his neck. _Thank you, Fallon, _she thought and felt a small sting of guilt. "I guess you did."

"So?"

"So, you're not meant to be fighting before the Games have even started –"

"Fuck off."

"But I'm not saying you can't at all. I don't blame you for wanting to test each other, but don't be too obvious." She narrowed her eyes. "And don't start something you can't finish."

"Oh, he didn't finish it," Nerissa said quietly. There was a macabre sort of pleasure in her voice.

"The trainers broke us up," Barra snapped.

"Once Fallon had his arm around your neck."

"Good job," Annabel said, and her tone was not kind. "You've shown Fallon, the gamemakers, and all the other tributes that he's stronger than you. They already guessed it, but you didn't have to put on a show."

* * *

><p>It was much later when Annabel returned from her date with Dale Olinger. She had found followed the delicate tracery of tattoos that ran around his lips and down beneath his collar. It had not stopped there, and Annabel had licked her way down over each flower just like he meant her to. <em>New money always likes to make a statement, <em>she had thought. It was still too early for the Capitol to be asleep and the flickering lights of the nearest street party bathed the lounge room with a sickly wash. Annabel brushed a panel by the wall and the windows darkened. It was quiet in the apartment; Leda and Merle were probably out, the others sleeping. She would have gone to her room then, to wash the feel of him from her mouth and between her legs, but she heard something, quiet in the night. At first, it was a pained animal noise, but then it became a sob. Annabel sighed softly and she remembered when she had fallen asleep with tears still wet on her face.

She stopped outside the door to Barra's room. Annabel hesitated, there, and she wondered if Nerissa had gone to seek comfort in his touch, for she had said she cared about him, once. When she heard the sob again, Annabel pushed open the door slowly. There she stood in the doorway. She saw a tangle of limbs, tanned skin, and pale. It took her a moment to realise that the girl was not Nerissa. Then, she knew what the wretched sobbing, gagging sound had been. Her eyes blazed and her hands shook.

"What the fuck?"

The avox girl snatched up her white uniform and fled in disarray. Her hair flew wild around her shoulders and tears streaked her face. It was too soon for the bruises to show, but Annabel did not doubt they would. She turned to Barra and her hands made fists by her side. There was a sick feeling pushing its way up from her stomach. He lay on his back with the sheets pushed down around his ankles, and he made no effort to cover himself. There were scratches on his chest and his neck, but Annabel knew the girl had not been playing when she put her nails to his skin. She glared at him as he stretched there, naked and defiant. Annabel and Barra were both breathing heavily.

"What are you going to do?" he asked scornfully. He was still hard, his cock resting against his belly, wet with the girl. Slowly, he stroked a hand up his length and closed his eyes for a moment.

"You're foul," she spat. "You're sick."

"So?" Barra pushed himself up on his elbows. "I know you don't like me. In a few days, it's not going to fucking matter what anyone thinks."

"You don't have to make it worse."

"I already know you don't want me to win." Barra looked at her then, and even naked and hard, he had more dignity than she did. His eyes were grey like hers, and steady. "So you can just fuck off while I finish."


	8. Chapter 8

Sunlight lanced down between the boughs and pooled on the forest floor. It splashed gold over the trunks and the rotting, dead leaves. Annabel could almost smell the cloying scent of decay. But high above the ground, the leaves were half a hundred shades of green. Some were mottled with cream and others looked as soft as a baby's skin. The bright morning sun pierced them all and showed the delicate tracery of veins that branched out to their tips. With the light under the branches all a soft golden-green, it looked a good place. Annabel smiled and turned away from the wall. As in all the apartments in the tribute tower landscapes had been transpired onto the walls until they became the mountains, the oceans, or the forest. _I wonder if there's anything nice to put on the walls on 12's floor, _she thought. Annabel had never been that far up, for they usually met on District 3's floor, or somewhere more secretive. Dirk and Merit did not like Haymitch, and they threw their weight around when they insisted they would not go to the top of the tower. Annabel did not know that the rippling meadow that flanked the coalfields was just as beautiful as District 7's forests. Nothing would match her oceans, though. At first, Annabel assumed the design was intended to make the tributes feel more at ease, but now she thought that the scenes of home were there to remind the mentors what they had to lose. She was right.

"That's quite lovely," she said. "Is it near your home?"

Upon the wall by the living room on her floor, Cayr Beach spanned from floor to ceiling. She found it comforting to look at the gentle curve of the bay, even if it was too easy to imagine how the caves there might conceal Finn's broken body. When she went home, Annabel would talk Finn out of visiting Nelly's Caves again. _But I bet he already has, _she thought, for Finn did not regard promises as any more permanent than drawings in the tide line. Often, lines in the wet sand would last longer than even his most solemn promise. He was not dishonest, and rarely lied to a question put directly to him, but sometimes things slipped though Finn's mind and one would push out another until he could answer with wide eyes that he did not remember promising anything. Annabel imagined how earnest he would look, his lips parted, questioning, as he shook his head when she asked him if he had been to Nelly's Caves again. If her grandfather had not suffered another stroke that halted his beautiful voice, she would have asked him to tell a story so frightening that Finn would stay away from the limestone tunnels all together. _Perhaps I'll ask Dirk for one, _she thought. His tales of bodies found frozen in the snow, or crushed between great slabs of rock were frightening for they were true. With all the horrors she had seen, Annabel should have been able to come up with her own cautionary tale, but Arriane was right; she wasn't very good with what she did not know.

Blight did not speak, at least not with his lips. He shook his head and the conversation was quickly at an end. They crossed into the living room, and there Annabel sat. Though she was only young, she had the possession of both a victor and a career. The victors from 1, 2, and 4 might argue, keep secrets, and undermine each other often, but when faced by an outsider, they were always strong. Even when they met in the rooms Beetee had rendered safe to talk in, Merit and Dirk often did not take the old inventor seriously. The girl did not realise that now she employed the same tilt to her chin that said, _yes, I'm a little better than you. _Annabel knew that she had drawn the short straw, but it was comforting to know that the others trusted her to go and speak with Blight.

While she stretched back on the couch, he remained standing. He gripped the back of an armchair harder than he needed to, taking his stance on the opposite side of the room from the young woman. Nine years ago, the girl from 4 had forced Blight's mouth open while her partner sliced out his tongue. Perhaps they had grown sick of his arrogant comments, and unfortunately for Blight it had been his woodcraft and tracking skills, rather than his strength, that had given him an invitation into the career group. When they left him to die, he would have succumbed if he had gathered the courage to shove the end of a burning stick in his mouth until the stump of his tongue seared over. Blight had not eaten meat since.

"I just wanted to tell you personally that the volunteers are considering an alliance with Gaige," she explained. "They're going to talk with him today at training."

Blight's brows drew together in an angry line and his face closed down. He had been just sixteen when he entered the arena, and his last words had been lost in a scream of agony. A fierce wind had brought a tree crashing down, and the girl from 4 had been trapped under it for more than a day before her cannon sounded. Her partner had been killed more quickly – and painfully – when he found the den of the bear that Blight had so carefully tracked around. Blight had laughed when he saw their faces projected into the night sky, but the sound was no longer human and there was no mirth in it. So he gripped the back of the chair as if it was a barricade and he shook his head.

"It's really up to Gaige," Annabel said. "I just wanted to let you know. It'll be up to him to decide if he can trust the group. I'd tell you that they mean it when they say they want an alliance with him, but I don't know how much that'd mean to you."

The look on Blight's face was scathing. Annabel struggled to remain composed as she stood and crossed her arms. She missed the flicker of fear in the other victor's eyes. Just the sight of her brought back memories that he had tried to lose in the twisting paths of the forest – and of his mind – but he was frightened for his tribute. Being noticed by the careers was not a good thing and he imagined a target slapped between Gaige's shoulders. Blight pulled a tablet from his pocket and he swiped the screen into life. He handed the message to her. _Does he have a choice? _Annabel's face hardened. She looked up to meet Blight's gaze. His lips were pressed together in a thin line; he was always careful, even when he ate, not to let anyone see the ruined place where his tongue had been.

"He can say no if he wants to. But I'll leave you to talk about whether that's a good idea or not."

When she realised her word choice, two spots of colour rode high on her cheeks. But Annabel said nothing about it. She thought of Gaige Covess, and what Blight would say to him, what Blight _could_ say. Gaige, with his axe-calloused hands had caught the attention of mentors and tributes as he showed his strength in the training centre and the chariot rides. _Yes, he's strong enough to make a go of it, so it's best to keep him close. _She wondered if the boy would feel the target painted on his back as he thought of the few other times that an outsider had been introduced into the careers' alliance. Usually, it ended in blood. In his position, she would not take up with the careers, but a refusal would not erase the target. His strength had got him noticed, and would bring sponsorship that District 7 did not usually receive, but it might also ensure that his cannon would be the first. _If I were him, I wouldn't trust Barra or Nerissa, Cyra, or District 1. Don't think Fallon's smart enough to think of anything tricky, but I bet he'd kill once he caught on. _Part of her felt sort for the boy from 7, but most of her wanted to see Nerissa in a crown of laurels, no matter what they would bring after.

At the entrance to District 7's apartment, she hesitated. There, on the wall, was another forest. Sunlight pierced the foliage to make golden pools on the fallen leaves, but in this scene they were fewer and the darkness between them was deeper. The trees were _old. _Their boughs twisted and fought for space and their roots pushed up out of the rotting leaves. It was hard not to feel that there were _eyes_ in the deep hade. Along the coasts of Annabel's home, the tea tree and gum thickets were sparse, and the sun shone right though them. She shivered.

"Is this near your home?" This time, Blight nodded.

* * *

><p>Annabel had a rare afternoon off. Sitting cross-legged on Nerissa's bed, she decided hat this was more important than closing one more sponsorship deal. Once more, she was right. Nerissa's cheeks were flushed from giggling, and the tension had eased from her shoulders. It had been building until she had barely been able to conceal her nerves, waiting for her name to be called to the individual sessions with the gamemakers. Of course, her feeling of growing dread had started well before today, back with the waves and the salt-air and the Reaping. But she giggled, now, and for even a few hours, it was good to be a child again. Annabel had called an avox to bring them something to eat and she had laid out a little fountain of chocolate on a tray and surrounded it with strawberries. Now, their fingers were sticky with chocolate.<p>

"How was your session?"

"I did everything you said." Nerissa swirled a strawberry in the chocolate and licked her fingers. Her nails pinched at the stem as she took a bite. "I bet Silk just gave all the gamemakers a blowjob. Sorry – except _Seneca._"

They laughed, but Annabel stopped quickly. She imagined Silk's plump, pink lips around Seneca's cock and she felt a clutch of jealousy. She had not seen him since she left the Capitol last; they had both been busy, it was true. _When I do see him, I'll make sure he remembers me. _When her jealousy faded, it left a dirty taste in her mouth.

"Fallon took ages. Nearly half an hour." Nerissa laughed unkindly. "Probably forgot what he was doing and had to start again."

"He's that bad?"

"He's pretty slow." Nerissa drew her brows together and parted her lips in a credible imitation of Fallon's confused expression. After Atala had explained the percentage of them that would die from starvation and exposure, one of the gamemakers had asked Fallon the percentage he intended to kill. He had bitten his lip and thought about it before he muttered, _A lot of them. _"But I don't think anyone minded when he stripped off to wrestle. I didn't!"

"Go on, then," Annabel laughed, "would you do him?"

"Maybe…if I could sort of look the other way. Your turn?"

"I could think of worse, I guess." Once, the game had been to list off the boys that they would kiss. Though they had chocolate smeared on their fingers and faces, and they laughed like children, their games had changed a little. "What about Lux?"

"He's got his head that far up his arse." Nerissa wrinkled her nose. "He doesn't say much, but he's got this smug look. I hate it. This morning he was being such a shit, because he got a bullseye with his arrow, but Barra was really funny; he grabbed the bow and smacked Lux's arse…"

For a moment, they were silent as Barra's name hung in the air. Annabel had not told Nerissa what she had seen him doing, and she wondered if she should have. There was a little glow in Nerissa's eye and it was obvious that she was not indifferent to him.

Annabel laughed forcibly. "We could teach Lux some manners! So, what's the guy from 3...Sebastian?"

So they laughed and ate strawberries that were as sweet as childhood memories. The chocolate was as rich and dark and cloying as adolescence. They swapped stories and memories and discussed just how they could rid Lux Sabins of his smug smile – and his pants. The one topic that did not come up was the way that in two days time, the gong would sound and Nerissa would become a killer. But too soon, it was over, and they gathered in the living room for the announcement of the training scores.

Once, as they ate pancakes and cream at their favourite café under the shadows of the Kellies, Seneca had explained the scoring system to her. Nobody was meant to score above ten, in truth. Anything above ten was a great, glowing target. A score of twelve was a message to the rest of the tributes: _kill them, and we'll thank you for it. _Only one tribute had scored a twelve in Annabel's lifetime. The boy from 8 had looked like he could manage to score six at most. His father had been advocating higher pay for the factory workers, so the gamemakers took his son and gave him the highest score. Thinking that he must have had a talent he had never revealed, his partner gutted him at the Bloodbath. It was not a good thing to score higher than ten, and most knew it. Though a score below eight – for a career – meant that sponsorship would be scarce.

They all gathered there – mentors and tributes – except Leda. Annabel glanced to Merit and mouthed her name, but he just nodded toward the door and said nothing. This time, Barra did not stretch out in his chair; he sat as carefully upright as the rest of them, though when he realised it, he leant back, but still could not ease the tension in his face. The smudge of a bruise still marked his face and neck. Annabel hoped the scratches from the girl's nails stung, too. So while Annabel and Barra kept a cold distance, she and Nerissa sat close. When Caesar's face flashed onto screen, his hair and lips all coloured silver, they linked their fingers together and sent a prayer. Neither could have decided what they said, or who they asked for help.

The scores rolled out like dominos. Beautifully golden Silk scored a nine and her partner quickly matched her. Cyra earned herself another nine. Barra swore nastily when Fallon was given a ten. _That's no surprise, _Annabel thought. _He could have fucked up entirely, but the gamemakers would remember his father and uncle and give him a ten anyway. _

"Can he count that high?" Nerissa muttered angrily. For a moment, Barra caught her eye and he grinned. They looked away.

District 3 did not score ten between them, and when their faces faded form the screen, Nerissa held her friend's hand – hard. They used the photos from the Reaping. Nerissa's hair had been blown back over her shoulders by the warm breeze, and now it was frozen, a still flag sailing behind her. She smiled in her photo, but as she watched the screen, her jaw was set. She held her breath and did not release it until a number nine slid onto the screen. But she had barely relaxed when Barra topped it with another ten. His face showed savage pleasure. Annabel wondered what he showed the gamemakers to earn that. Had they seen how eager he was to kill? The tributes and Annabel were still grinning when Merit stood in from of them with his arms folded. Behind him, the children from District 5 together managed to score ten.

"Good scores. Now, you've got to live up to them. Unless you consolidate with a good interview, they mean nothing."

* * *

><p>Annabel wondered if Darrnan and Osires wished to make up for sending their tributes out before the nation in just the semblance of a costume. This time, in her dress of deep coral pink, Nerissa was beautiful. It was the kind of colour that never survived at the surface; she and Finn often went diving below <em>Old Pier, <em>but they knew better than to snap off the coral fronds, for their colours would leech away when held up in the sun. Nerissa's hair was swept over her shoulder and pinned there, and it was much longer than usual. Later, Annabel would thank Darrnan for giving his tribute one good memory to hold onto in the arena. When Annabel smiled at her friend, she meant it. Barra was dressed simply, his clothing dark, but the jacket had been padded out until he was as broad across the shoulders as Fallon Lockyer. _I wouldn't have minded if Barra had to go on stage with his arse showing again, _Annabel thought bitterly. _Shame he looks good. _Soon, they would take to the stage and Annabel knew that Nerissa's easy, flirtatious confidence would win her cheers, and sponsorship. _I'd take a good interview and an eight rather than ten and a bad one. _But first, there were the group photos to get through.

They were a farce that only the career alliance was submitted to, unless of course a group from the outer district formed up. The tributes would stand there with false camaraderie so that the gamemakers could roll out the photo later, when the alliance shattered. And it would. But for now, her tributes stood with those from 1 and 2, and surly Gaige Covess, in one of the honeycomb-like rooms behind the stage. Most of their mentors stood back out of the way, and their faces showed the boredom and exasperation their tributes had to hide from the camera, and from Cressida. She was young, and lucky to be working with the Games so early. But then, there were plenty of people pushed into roles that they were far too young for. Annabel wondered if there was a good age to become a killer. She knew there was not. Perhaps because of her youth, Cressida was anxious that the shoot went smoothly and her manner was abrupt. A tiny green vine tattoo curled at her temple and she brushed her hand over it often. Her cameraman seemed much more at ease, but he too was young.

Now, Cressida had all seven tributes lines up, their faces in frozen smiles. The three girls sat quietly at the front. Cressida had moved them into position like living dolls and her eyes had been hard when she warned them not to move. Cyra sat straight and looked down the camera as if she were taking sight for a target, though her spear was nowhere in sight. Nerissa leant forward with one elbow resting on her knee and her hand trailed down between her legs, guiding the camera there. Her lip was raised in a haughty grin that certainly did not reach her eyes. But Silk looked indecent. She leant back until her head rested on her partner's groin, and her legs were spread in an open invitation. Cressida had stuck her fingers in the girl's mouth to open her lips _just so. _The boys stood behind with their arms around each other's shoulders.

Fallon and Barra reminded everyone that they were really just children as they turned it into a subtle contest of strength. At least, they thought they had not been noticed. Fallon bore his weight down on Barra's shoulder, hoping to make him stumble out of line. Barra reached behind him, trying to bend his fingers back. If they thought their glassy-eyed smiles betrayed nothing, they were wrong. Finally, Barra pitched forward into Cyra. The girl stood up quickly and let Barra fall painfully over her chair. As soon as he got to his feet, he drove his fist into Fallon's stomach.

"For fuck's sake!" Dirk snapped.

"If you two can't keep your hands off each other," Cressida said icily, "we'll give you some time alone."

Barra smirked, then, as he stepped back into the line. Fallon's face was flushed as he tried to get his breath back. Annabel was willing to bet that one would kill the other – and soon. When the gong sounded in the arena, their half-serious fights would become deadly. It would not be the first time an alliance didn't last the day. She caught Nerissa's eye and raised her eyebrows. _Boys are ridiculous_, her gaze said.

They were nearly finished when Cressida consulted her tablet and sighed. "Let's get one last shot with our two tens. Come on."

Nerissa fell back to stand next to Annabel. She shifted her weight to one hip, resting her foot. Her heels were high enough to make her well taller than her friend. They stood there for a moment and watched Barra try to break Fallon's fingers while he kept a frozen smile on his face.

"They're going to kill each other," Nerissa murmured. Her voice was soft, but it was not sad. "Aren't they?"

"Better than you having to," Annabel said. "Watch out, okay? If they start to fight your alliance will fall apart. Cyra and Fallon would probably have been training as a team for years. She'll try to kill you."

"They slept together."

"Who?" Absurdly, Annabel pictured Fallon and Barra, naked, wrestling–

"Cyra and Fallon," Nerissa said quietly. "She said she didn't want to be a virgin, in case, you know, and Fallon was closest."

"Classy," Annabel muttered. "Wonder if they'll keep it clean in the arena?"

"I reckon. She said Fallon was shit. Not that she'd know."

The camera clicked softly and the tributes waited around in their gowns and their suits. Behind the stage, the rest of them would be lining up to take their places for the interviews. Some would be fighting a roiling stomach, and others would have been sick already. Annabel looked away from Barra and Fallon and she turned to face her friend.

"Just, be careful, okay?" she whispered. "Be on your guard. And don't…don't let Barra do anything to you."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: **

**For those of you who have read ****_Depraved and Devious, _****please note that I have changed a few things. For those of you who have not read ****_Depraved and Devious_****, feel free to pop by and find lots of juicy smut, and a sneak preview of the 69th Games. **

**Also, I am going overseas for three weeks. I might update each week still, but if I do not, I'll have three chapters for you when I come back. **

**Cheers.**

* * *

><p>The tributes were giants. Upon the screen, three stories high, they waited for the countdown. But they were a mockery; their strength was enlarged, and their determination, but so too was their fear. For some, the sixty seconds that their faces were broadcast to the launch party on the plaza would decide if they were to live or die. The more diligent sponsors noted the hard lines of resolve or the shimmer of tears in their eyes, and they made their last minute decisions. Some sponsors fell for a brave face, but none for tears. And however they stood all the children waiting on the platforms had been forced there. Their names might have been drawn from a storm of paper, or read by an escort who chose another name. Even the volunteers had little choice, for they had been conditioned to think that murder was excusable when it was slapped on a screen for the nation. When the countdown began, a collective shiver of electricity ran through the plaza. There, the sponsors and victors were dressed more colourfully than a flock of exotic birds, but the tributes wore ugly greens and browns until they looked like creatures at home in their arena. At least some did, but for others the fear on their faces marked them out.<p>

_59…58…57…56…55… _The arena was a marsh of toxic green algae, mud and tangling, crawling vines. Heat shimmered, and so too did the gases rising from the foul ponds. Solid ground blended with water and the treacherous stage in between, and all was lurid green but for the sucking, black mud. In the distance, mountains reared tall and the marsh stretched to their feet. There were tidal saltmarshes along the banks of the _Carra _and down the Southern Horn, but they were home to soldier crabs and oystercatchers. Nothing natural could live among the lurid algae in the arena. Seneca Crane had told Annabel to keep her tributes to the middle – to the marsh – and he had given good advice. The other careers, from the cold north, would soon be suffering. Above it all, the sky was low and grey with cloud.

…_54…54…52…51…50… _Gleaming gold, the Cornucopia perched like some great insect among the sludge. The only break of colour to the landscape, it drew the eye as it was meant to. In the wide mouth, supplies were piled high, but none ranged out from there. There were crates of food, and water tanks, and the weapons were hidden behind them. Such a design would lead to the most brutal Bloodbath for years as the tributes would all converge on the one, tiny target – or it would not. Sometimes, when there were no easy pickings, most of the children would chose to go without any supplies, rather than risk coming into contact with the careers who would undoubtedly take possession of the horn. With a low number of deaths in the Bloodbath, there would be more excitement over the following days. In some games, half the children could be killed in a few heartbeats.

…_49…48…47…46…45… _Fallon Lockyer was the tallest tribute, and with a dark shadow of stubble across his jaw, and his hands curled into fists, he looked like a soldier, like his grandfather. The look had been well calculated by mentors and stylists, to remind the sponsors that the boy's family had been faultlessly loyal for more than seventy years. Even as Dirk met with Beetee and Haymitch in secret, he encouraged his nephew to trust the Capitol, and to say so. Cyra was four places over, and close enough to catch her partner's eye. She nodded slightly to the tributes between them, and Fallon raised his hand to say that he understood. The pair from District 10 were both dark haired and swarthy, and their muscles were lean. They looked to be good runners, but they would need to be agile in the face of the power Fallon and Cyra would generate once the gong sounded. The cousins looked to each other; he nodded subtly to the horn, and she flashed him a quick smile. They would have done better to run. As the countdown continued, they stretched their hands out to each other, and though they were metres apart, they took strength from the gesture.

_…44…43…42…41…40…_ Lux and Silk were hidden from each other by the curve of the horn, but they did not intend to play as a team. Sweat already darkened their silver-blonde hair. Quickly, separately, they mapped the clear, hard ground between their plates and looked to those beside them. Silk's hair was long and loose about her face, and her posture was closer to a model than a sprinter's start, for she would not give up a chance to attract the sponsors' eyes. And they did look at her, but now they saw the arena for the first time, Cyra's muscle and the hard look in her eye started to look more attractive than curves and smiles. Lux did not pose. He stood quietly still, and only his head moved. It was his unconscious grace that would draw the sponsors in.

_…39…38…37…36…35… _A wide smile was painted across Barra's face, and it was genuine. He scanned the terrain and his smile grew. For the boy who hailed from the treacherous saltmarshes that made up the Southern Horn, the arena was a gift. He had spent the first twelve years of his life playing around the mouth of the river _Levven, _where it spread out into tidal channels, his mother's warnings that it was dangerous falling on deaf ears. There, he learnt that sometimes a smooth patch of mud was waiting to swallow a shoe, or a leg, and he grew quick and sure-footed among the pools and channels. Many days the temperature had climbed to forty degrees. So Barra grinned, and he traced paths through the marsh that he was sure nobody else would see. He thought of Fallon and Cyra with their summer snows, and he wished they were not hidden by the golden horn, for he wanted to see their disappointment, and the trace of fear in their eyes. Instead, Barra tried to catch Nerissa's gaze, but she was not looking.

_…34…33…32…31…30…_ Standing tall on her plate, Nerissa showed none of the fears that she had confided to Annabel on the last night before the Games. She wore the ugly camouflage as if it were something much finer, and she raised her chin in a challenge. Nerissa felt Barra's eyes on her, but she did not try to meet them. Instead, she looked, and she remembered Annabel's last words of advice. _Keep to the middle. And please, watch out for Barra as much as the others. _She saw the ugly look of excitement on his face, and glanced away.

…_29…28…27…26…25…_ Gaige Covess licked his lips and shifted his feet on the plate. Placed between his allies from 2, he did not know if it was a good thing or a bad. His heart thrummed to a faster countdown than the one that echoed around the marsh. He did not know what would happen when the fighting started. When Fallon and Cyra turned to look at each other, he felt their gazes lock like a vice and he was afraid. He wondered if they would chase him if he ran away from the Cornucopia and the bloodshed it promised, but he was not brave enough to make the decision. There was already a target splashed across his back. His skills with an axe in the training centre had ensured it.

_…24…23…23…21…20… _Little Tabby came from the smoggy city of Alton, in 8, and she was crying. Never had the girl seen so much greenery and there was the feel of danger in the bright, green, weeds. She crouched on her hands and knees, and she was crying. Sixteen years old, she wore the expression of one much younger. She had a mind to match. As she leant over the edge of the plate, her little face fearful, the girl beside her shook her head frantically. Tabby wavered and steadied herself. She whimpered. Her partner was hidden by the curve of the horn, but she looked for him and called his name softly. She did not have Cyra's bulk, or Nerissa's confident curves; the girl still had the body of a child, thin and twisted, and she thrust her fingers in her mouth.

_…19…18…17…16…15… _Out beyond the horn, the reeds and the creeping vines rustled though the air was hot and still. A small, scaled tail flicked out of sight. There were eyes in the green, eyes of red and yellow and hunger. Teeth were kept hidden, for now. With a soft splash and the chitter of its fellows, something slipped into one of the pools. The water bubbled and the creature did not surface. Off in the distance, a shadow rippled over the flanks of the mountains, but few saw it.

_…14…13…12…11…10… _The tributes wore camouflage but Annabel was in a skirt of delicate peach. The diaphanous material showed the shadow of her curves. Her blouse was the shame shade, and half a hundred soft leaves interlocked to barely cover her breasts. When she moved, she gave the potential sponsors a taste and a promise. She was not the only victor on the plaza. They all had much reason to be there. Those who were missing were down on the ground floor, ready to convert the promises of sponsors into weapons, bandages, and anything their tributes would soon need. Annabel worked the upper floors, for her friend was about to become a killer. She sat at one of the many low couches, and beside her, Dale Olinger put his hand on her thigh. He had promised to donate a weapon for Nerissa, should she need it, or something else if she did not. Annabel's fingers found their way to his belt and she traced it softly. With her free hand, she caught his and let him feel the heat between her legs. She looked at him mischievously, and he was new enough to the game to be swept up in it. Just like the tributes who planned their way to the horn and singled out who they would kill, Annabel's movements were coldly calculated.

_…9…8…7…6…5… _With determination or with fear, the tributes waited for the gong. Projected larger than life, their emotions were there for all to see. Until the moment they died, they would be on show. Even their deaths would be replayed and glorified. The commentators would offer their suggestions too late, where the child went wrong, but never would they say, _well, maybe she shouldn't have volunteered. Maybe his father shouldn't have held back that shipment. You know, she just shouldn't have been born in District 8. _Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith watched the tributes and the launch party below. They were stationed up on a private balcony, broadcasting live. From there, they would narrate deaths and injuries and temporary triumphs to the nation. But just as the cameras were on the tributes, they were on the commentators, too, and they chose their words carefully.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Claudius' voice rolled out over the plaza, and over Panem. "Let the Games begin!"

_…4…3…2…1…0. _The tributes were giants on screen, but when they died, they were children.

* * *

><p>The heat closed heavy, but adrenaline cut through it, shaper than a knife. The hard ground around the horn was good for a sprint. But for each tribute who ran towards the cornucopia, two fled into the stinking marsh. Barra and Nerissa raced, their faces set like masks, and they reached the supplies without a fight. But then, their masks cracked and their shock broke through. Missing were the knives, spears, swords and bows the careers had come to rely on. There was nothing but ugly, spiked maces. And without something they could throw, the careers had little chance of catching the tributes who had already been swallowed up by the reeds and pools of the marsh. For a moment, Barra and Nerissa looked at each other, their anger and disappointment mounting, but then the Bloodbath began.<p>

Fallon and Cyra reached the horn within seconds of each other and they snatched up a pair of the maces as if they had never used anything else. Cyra gestured quickly and they spread out until they flanked the pair from 10. The cousins gave up on reaching the horn. It was too late for them. Fallon and Cyra proved that even in well-trained hands, maces made for messy kills. The spikes tore into flesh and caught in bone. When they were pulled free, strips of skin came too.

Nerissa's fight began. She and Barra took up their weapons, unfamiliar in their hands. Nerissa raised hers uncertainly, and she did not have the brutal strength to make it lethal. The tall, dark boy from 11 was quicker than she was, and the spikes of his mace tore into her leg. She stumbled. Her expression was shock and pain and indignation. Barra swung at the boy's face. He ripped it off. Again and again he swung his mace until the place where the child's face had been was wet and red. A whimper came from what used to be the mouth, and Barra hit him again.

"Fucking chase them!" Barra spat.

"I'll guard," Nerissa said.

The others ran. Lux, who earned his score with a show of agility that made the gamemakers overlook his slight frame, was already ahead. Light on his feet, even with his ungainly weapon, he closed on the skinny boy from 3. Then, they were both hidden in a swaying thicket of reeds. There was a scream. Only Lux came out of the thicket. He swung his mace over his shoulder and began to walk casually back to the horn, for already, the rest of the children they chased had disappeared into the marsh. They did not know yet that there were worse things than the careers in there. Softly, the ground cover rustled and green scales matched the shade.

Fallon and Cyra stuck together, shadowing each other's movements well. Yet they were cautious and frustrated. Neither had seen a marsh before, but they knew instinctively to steer away from the pools with their covering of poisonous green. They wanted rocks, or a good, flat sprint and a spear. They worked well as a team, calling to each other, _shit, not there. Watch out!, _but still, they would not have caught the girl from 12 if the marsh had not trapped her. She ran, her throat tearing, but a wide pool spread out before her. Even if she had known how to swim, the evil green and the shimmering haze of gas frightened her as much as the careers behind her. Her sob of desperation drew them on, and when she tried to backtrack, they were there. Cyra's mace shattered the girl's hip. She writhed there, churning the ground to thick, black mud. Her flailing hand caught Fallon's ankle and he stepped back.

"You want this?" Cyra asked.

"You got her first."

"How generous."

" 's okay."

Fallon smiled, as if there were not a girl sobbing at his feet, and he put his foot on her back to hold her still. Cyra rolled her eyes at her partner and remembered that sometimes he did not notice her sarcasm. They had talked as if the girl could not hear them, and Cyra finished her off as if she were an unpleasant task that had to be done. She swung her mace at the back of the girl's head, and since the cannons had not sounded yet, she made doubly sure of her kill. The whimpers ceased and the girl's fingers stopped tearing at the mud and vines. Cyra and Fallon stepped away.

When the cannons did sound, the echoes died quickly on the thick air. Five blasts remembered the faces of five children, but for the careers it was a disappointment. Some of them had not even killed yet. Gaige swung his mace uneasily by his side and he tried to conceal the unease he felt. Barra kicked angrily at the reeds and waved his hand high over his head. Naturally, he assumed control and the others fell into line, for now.

"Here!" he shouted, jogging back to the horn.

Only three bodies lay there, and two more were hidden in the marsh. While few kills at the Bloodbath meant higher totals over the next few days, it was not impressive, and the careers knew it. Fallon and Cyra exchanged a smug smile, for they knew that in the sponsors' eyes they had just become the strongest competitors. Cyra said something in a low voice and Fallon laughed.

"This is fucked," Barra snapped.

"Least they didn't get any supplies," Cyra offered.

" 'Least they didn't get any supplies,'" Barra mimicked her. "Fuck off."

"Hey–" Fallon took a step forwards but Cyra caught his arm and shook her head.

"Don't start," she snapped. "At least we got on the board."

"I got a kill. There," Barra said angrily.

He strode over to the boy from 11's body and he kicked it roughly. More blood oozed from the child's ruined mouth. His teeth were stained red where his lips had been ripped away. They might have fought, then, less than an hour into the games, and if they had, there would have been very few survivors. Lux and Silk took a few quiet steps back. But then, the sound cut the air and as one, the careers turned to it. It was a high keening – inhuman, yet unmistakably it came from a child. Unconsciously, the careers moved closer together and they walked back towards the plates. The wail clawed its way up into the heavy, hot air and hung there. As the adrenaline faded, the careers were afraid of such emotion and such grief. Inside, they wondered if any of them had caused it. And there, still by her plate, Tabby huddled. She had not hidden with any thought of strategy, but the running and the screams had frightened her. She cried like a young child, without words, but she did not need them to convey her fear and her miserable plea for help. Her cries got louder when she saw the group walking toward her, yet it was uncertain if she cried for them, or because of them.

"Well that's pathetic," Silk said flatly.

"I noticed you don't have a kill yet," Lux pointed out.

"That wouldn't count, anyway."

Then, childishly, Barra put his finger to his nose and the others were quick to follow, except Fallon. He half-heartedly raised his hand before he saw he was last. At their feet, Tabby still wailed. She could not comprehend the unfairness of the system that had seen her dragged, screaming, to the stage; she just cried because she was frightened, and at home, that usually had her parents or older brothers scrambling to comfort her. Fallon scuffed his feet in the dirt and Barra smiled nastily.

"You're up," he said.

"That's not fair," Fallon muttered.

Still the girl huddled there, her arms wrapped around herself. The careers stood back, and though none admitted it, they felt ashamed – even Barra. But neither did they think of leaving her. Fallon wrinkled his nose and set his mace down on the ground. When he stepped closer, the girl looked up with tears painting her face. She still had the body of a small child, twisted and hunched, and she raised her arms like a child would, hoping to be lifted up and away from her troubles. For an absurd moment, it looked like Fallon would oblige. Then, he bent to put his arms around her neck. He straightened quickly and twisted her head around. The child was dead with tears still in her eyes, but she had started to smile when she thought Fallon was going to hold her in his arms.

The marsh shimmered and warped. In the gases that rose from some of the pools, the reeds looked as if they were swaying underwater. It was Barra who took charge as they looked through the horn. The large tanks of water were a blessing for the careers, and a warning; there would be scarce fresh water in the marsh. Soon, everyone but Nerissa had a heavy pack organised. She leant against the horn, arms crossed, and hoped that her casual pose masked the tightness of pain around her mouth. Fallon and Cyra were too busy putting electrolytes in their water, but Silk stood idly. She looked from Nerissa's face to her leg, and there was something of a predator in her gaze.

"I'll guard again," Nerissa said.

"Why?" Cyra asked.

"Cause she did a fucking good job just now," Barra snapped. "You go. I'll catch up."

"You two want some alone time?" Cyra put her hands on her hips.

"No. Do you two?"

"Fuck off." She swung a pack onto her shoulders and the others followed quickly. "Come on, Fallon."

While the rest of his allies picked their way carefully through the marsh, Barra watched. He waited until their forms were lost in the haze and the reeds, and then he kicked angrily at the side of the horn. He had seen the gleam of a challenge in Cyra's eyes, and her partner shadowed her, ready to back her up. Nerissa would not be able to help much if they fought. A nasty smile curved his lips up as he thought of what might happen to Cyra out in the heat and the dark mud. Absently, he slapped a mosquito between his hands and rubbed them together until it was only a smear on his skin. Then, he looked to his partner. Nerissa sat on a crate in the horn, and though her mace was by her side, she had not bloodied the head of it, yet. Her eyes were closed. When Barra went to stand by her, the sympathetic twist of his mouth was at odds with the excitement that lurked in his eyes.

"Let's see, then."

"Could you not?"

She opened her eyes. Barra stood close, and the girl had to look up at him when she glared. It took much of the power from her anger, and Barra shook his head. Inside the horn was barely cooler than out, and Nerissa was sweating more than usual. She gritted her teeth and lifted her hips enough to slide her trousers down. Blood had darkened the fabric, and it stuck to her skin. Just above her left knee, the skin was broken, bruised and ugly. Nerissa closed her eyes and tried to bend her leg, but it had grown stiff while she sat. When she looked up, she was crying. She avoided Barra's gaze.

"I'll help you clean it," he said unexpectedly.

There were bandages in the Cornucopia, though nothing but water to wash the wound with. Barra knelt by his partner and poured a bottle over her leg. It started to bleed again. Out in the stinking marsh, without a supply of fresh water, some of the smallest tributes were already starting to feel the effects of dehydration. Beyond the mouth of the horn, a silvery parachute fell softly to the ground. Nerissa did not see it, her eyes closed against the sting of the water on her leg, but Barra caught the quick flash of movement. He slipped out of the horn and scooped up the parachute.

"Thought I heard something," he called back.

Around the side of the horn, hidden from view, he unwrapped the gift and he knew it was not for him. A little bottle of antiseptic rested in his hand, and the boy smirked. Quickly, he hid it and the parachute in his pocket and said nothing. He went back to his partner and knelt down next to her to run a bandage tightly over her leg. Then, he smirked again and felt a tug deep in his gut. He flicked the elastic of her underwear and she pushed him away weakly.

"Go fuck yourself," she muttered.

"Or you could." He straightened. "You know you're dead."

"Don't tell the others about this."

Long after Barra headed into the marsh to hunt, Nerissa sat in the mouth of the horn and tried to hold back her tears. She had little success. Her leg throbbed and the marsh steamed, and she knew as well as anyone that heat and humidity bred infection. When the hovercraft came at last to take the bodies, Nerissa cringed back into the shadow as if it might take her too.


	10. Chapter 10

The bloody sunset unfurled behind the careers. Too bright to be natural, it was a clashing cacophony of red, orange and fiery pink. There was none of dusk's soft purple. Reds too bright and thick were slapped across the horizon until the sun wore a bloody crown. In the pristine control room, Seneca Crane swept his hand, as if across the sky, and the hearts of the clouds stared to glow and pulse. It was more a fiery, painful birth than a farewell. The tepid pools – those not covered in algae – shone like sheets of gold. They looked like some great platters for the gods, and the tributes were served up among them. The sharp rays from the sinking sun caught the marsh gas and painted it solid. It hung like a veil, the wrong colour for mourning, but the pools beneath bubbled and seethed darkly. The careers walked carefully though it all, back towards the golden horn.

Mosquitos and midges swarmed around their faces mercilessly. Fallon had taken off his shirt in the heat, much to the delight of the audience, but put it back on quickly when the insects would not leave him alone. Barra absently crushed a mosquito against his arm and smeared it into his skin. _A warning for the others, _he thought to himself. The insects did not bother him like the others, and nor did the heat. Even as the sun sank into the marsh, the air was hot and thick. It seemed reluctant to enter his lungs, but Barra was used to that. And he smiled when he saw his allies with their clothes sticking sweaty to their skin. He kept his shoulders back, chin up and he walked as if the arena was his. His allies lacked the energy to contradict him. They were happy enough to follow through the tangles and looping channels in the swamp, for now.

The cornucopia was a sort of home for the careers. The ground around it was solid and even Barra gained a little relief as he felt the hard-packed dirt beneath his feet. Down on the Southern Horn, the _Levven _was a crafty river. Barra had heard all the stories of long-dead heroes and gods who no longer cared. Often his mother used them as a warning. _You be good or the harpies will find you, _she said. But they never did, and nor did his mother have time to keep an eye on him. Her warnings lost potency when she shouted from the door with a screaming baby on her hip. Quickly Barra learnt he could get away with nearly anything as long as he didn't make a show about it. Of course, he was finally caught when he was twelve, and sent up to the academy in _Bombay. _As a boy he would pull muddy flathead from the channels of the _Levven _and bring them home to a family too busy to say thank you. After a while, he stopped fishing. He had heard all the stories of naiads that once lived in the streams and oceans, and when he was young enough to have an imagination he thought that the _Levven _would be an old crone with a laugh like dry bones. Sometimes, the channels switched and shifted, leaving vast swathes of slick mid. The stretches were home to red and blue soldier crabs. There, the pied and sooty oystercatchers walked light over the surface to pick a meal. But the mud was never marked by the bare footprints of the children who played near. They knew – just as they could recognise a tugging rip out on the beach – that it was not safe for even their weight. Instead, they would build little huts of sticks and wait for the wind or the water to claim them.

The fierce sunset lasted longer than it had a right to. Barra nodded to the others and they spread out to ensure nothing was hiding by the plates. Nerissa watched them with a bored smirk on her face but it did not quite hide the pain that lurked in her eyes. Her face was scrubbed red; she had been crying and tried to wash it away. Barra caught her eye. He would talk to her later.

"Hey! Gaige!" the boy shouted. "You should have got yourself on the board."

Gaige was hard looking in a way that was different from the careers. His muscle came from practical use, his scars acquired with meaning. He had been living in the harsh, real world more than they had. The careers were all sheltered, in a way, just as they were exposed to more violence than any child had a right to see. Fallon and Cyra had barely left the academy up behind Marble since they were eight years old. But then, the arena was not a real world. Gaige had the strength to wield the maces from the Cornucopia, but the will had not been trained into him.

"We'll find more tomorrow," he said, trying to adopt the casual attitude the careers all wore like armour.

Barra smirked again and said nothing. _Fuck tomorrow. _His trainers had taught him not to be predictable. His first punch was a surprise, but it should not have been. Gaige stumbled back and his hand went to his jaw. When he did not immediately try to attack, he proved that he was not one of them. For a moment, Barra looked at the boy and he grinned with too many teeth. He was like a shark, and he loved the scent of blood. Gaige tried to flee. Up in the control room, Seneca Crane spread his hands wide and the sunset stilled in the sky, to light the way for the victim, and for his attacker. It was a fitting background. Barra whistled. The other careers had already put their packs down and spread out around the horn.

Gaige ran back toward the blinding sunset, and Barra waited with his arms folded and look of smug satisfaction on his face. The boy was trapped and he knew it. His once-allies had fanned out like hunting wolves and they were ready to push him back, or to kill him themselves. Two years already he had been working with the men in their pine plantations, but he sobbed in desperation. A last effort, the boy darted between Lux and Cyra, though he had seen his allies outrun him in training again and again. Lux easily cut him off and herded him back like cattle. When Gaige tripped, he did not get back to his feet. The hunch of his shoulders and the expectation the careers wore said that they knew this had been coming from the start.

Barra's foot slammed into the boy's gut again and again. Gaige coughed and retched. Soon, blood as well as vomit sprayed his chin. In stark silence, the other careers watched and Barra circled, picking his angle. A career, trained to fight, and to _think_ to fight, would not have lain there. But Gaige tried to cover his head and his pleas sounded like the cries of a child. Barra drove his foot into Gaige's backside then shattered his nose and jaw. He whimpered and stopped trying to cover his head when Barra broke his fingers. The whimpers became an animal sound of pain and fear. Barra's face was alight; all his features shone in fierce definition, but there was something of a beast in his grin. Still the sunset did not fade. Blood splattered on the ground.

Cyra turned away and touched Fallon's arm. He startled and shook himself from a trance, and they drifted quietly back to the mouth of the horn. Silk and Lux followed separately. It was not that they were sickened by the act, but there was no excitement, nor glory, in an opponent covered in blood and vomit. But Barra did not stop. He grunted with the effort of each kick. Gaige stopped making a sound. Then, the cannon fired and Barra stood still. His chest heaved and his face was flushed with adrenaline. He grinned. The colours leeched rapidly from the sky, and darkness fell in a few heartbeats. Barra waited until the echoes of the cannon had faded, and then he spat on the ruin of the boy's face.

"You just going to fucking sit there?"

Cyra's voice carried out over the marsh into the night. The careers did not need to be quiet, to crouch trembling in the reeds. It was their arena, and they were a particularly strong group – perhaps too strong. Without a target, they would spend their frustrated, nervous energy on each other. They had not found a kill out in the marsh. The big girl from 2 glared at Nerissa and straightened. She had been crouching by the camp stove she found in the horn. Behind her, Fallon looked up. Though his hair was stuck dark and sweaty to his forehead, his hand still moved quickly towards his mace.

"Someone needs to supervise _you," _Nerissa snapped.

"Barra!" Cyra called angrily. "Do something about your partner. I've got mine under control."

Fallon frowned as if he wanted to say something, but he shrugged instead. He and Lux finished hooking a couple of lanterns to the ridge of the horn so the little campsite was filled with pale light. Beyond, the marsh looked much darker now. The reeds brushed against each other, whispering, though there was no movement in the air. Tiny eyes glowed yellow but they went unnoticed. Barra strode over and he left a bloody footprint in the dirt. He was taller than Cyra, but barely, and he stood too close. She did not flinch from him and he liked the contest.

"Leave her alone."

"Tell her to get off her arse and help."

Barra took a half step forward and locked his gaze on Cyra's dark eyes. He leered. At the _Docks_, they said that attack was sometimes the best way to defend. Barra had also been warned about starting fights he could not finish, but the temptation was too strong. He shoved her and laughed when she stumbled. But Cyra was quick and so was her partner. They had been trained to watch each other's backs until it was time to stick a knife there. Cyra recovered her balance and swung a punch. In a moment, Barra was on his back and there was real fear in his eyes. He had not listened when Gaige begged. Fallon's boot pressed down on his neck.

"Just put up some bloody fly nets, okay?" Cyra growled.

Later, the darkness deepened until it hung like a thick curtain. With the night came the moths. Clumsy and brown, their wings were each as large as a hand, their bodies as thick as a finger. They flapped heavily against the lanterns and cast frightening, dancing shadows. When their wings seared, it smelt like acrid burning hair. The careers did their best to ignore them, as they ignored the hovercraft that came to collect Gaige's body. The Anthem played in the night. The strident trumpets were nothing like the deep blasts of the cannons – the real soundtrack for the arena. Fallon and Cyra straightened unconsciously, and they both muttered the words under their breath. The habit reminded them of home. When the faces began to appear against the thick cloud, the pair from 2 put knots in a piece of string to remember how many they had left to kill. When little Tabby smiled uncertainly down at them, Cyra put her hand on her partner's shoulder. But Barra watched his allies. He looked to Nerissa. She caught his eye but did not try to hold it. Her hand strayed to her knee and Barra saw. It would not be long before the others noticed her weakness, and then there would be blood.

"Shit! They've got teeth!"

Lux shook a moth from his wrist and stamped on the thing when it fluttered clumsily to the ground. The careers gathered under their netting, then. The air was already like a clammy blanket so they needed none to keep warm. An argument began to brew, quick as a spring storm, when Barra ordered Cyra to keep watch first. Lux forestalled it, tiredly ducking out of his net to take up his mace. The others settled down. Cyra and Fallon lay close together, not for warmth, but for comfort. They did not touch. Quietly, Silk waited for her turn to guard, stretching out on her back like some provocative sleeping beauty. She was a long time getting to sleep, though, for she was aware that she had not made a kill either. Something larger moved among the reeds, but when Lux took a torch and stepped closer, he found nothing. The relief showed on his face, and he was reluctant to venture further out among the festering pools in the dark.

Barra waited until Silk, Fallon and Cyra were breathing heavily before he rolled over. Nerissa's eyes were open still, and Barra could feel her breath on his face. He said nothing, but reached his hand down to her knee. Her skin was hot. Painfully, she moved her leg away.

"Not getting better?" he asked quietly.

"You know it's not." She paused. "I'll have to stay here tomorrow."

"The others are going to catch on."

"I thought, maybe…"

Nerissa hesitated; she could not quite put it into words, not for Barra. But she thought that Annabel might have sent her something to help by now. _We always said we were friends, even when we weren't really. _She turned her face away. She looked up, through the spider web of netting, at the clouds. There were no stars to break up the uniformity of the darkness. The night was heavy with cloud and the fetid smell of the marshes. Off in the distance, the mountains were darker. Some tributes had made it up into the rocks, but they found the slopes to be as dangerous as the marsh. Up there, they shivered and an entirely different weather system threatened snow. Barra's hand snaked under Nerissa's shirt but she pushed him away. In the dark, their eyes shone. He got up on his elbows to kiss her roughly, but he felt tears on her skin. Slowly, he pulled away. When he reached for her hand, she let him hold it, and they lay there quietly in the night. Some years the Games made people go mad, and others they brought out the good. Barra murmured softly, but he smiled in the dark and kept the little sponsor gift of antiseptic well hidden.

* * *

><p>A hundred miles away, the mentors waited in the plaza. A floor was set aside for them, and it was filled with screens and phones, and avoxes to fetch thick, black coffee – or something stronger. Many of the mentors, those who did not have a team to help them, would eat and sleep there for the length of the Games. It was quiet now. Most of the tributes had bedded down for the night, and there was little to do. Those that were awake still moved cautiously through the marsh and they risked their lives at each step, for there was no moon. Mute Blight sat still at his station as he had since the sun in the arena set. His girl, Maya, had got away. Light on her feet, the girl did not risk the Bloodbath, and she had already made it to the mountains where she found clean, cold water and a spray of berries in the rock. But Blight still stared at the screen where Gaige's alliance had ended just as he knew it would. Later, an avox would come to give Blight a crumped piece of paper – the note he had scrawled to Gaige. <em>Good luck, and watch those careers.<em>

Annabel, too, sat at her station quietly. She was not alone, but it was not the time to talk. When Avery stopped by her chair, she looked up. He fitted the mould District 2 liked to use – six-foot-something, broad across the shoulders, big hands, and dark eyes that could look steadily at blood – except for his preferences. They started around the same time; she turned fifteen the year he stepped out of his cave in the snow to grip the hovercraft's ladder with freezing fingers. _Is it easier for you to do men?_ she had asked. He had looked at her like she made a bad joke. _Is it easier for you?_ They both knew it was not. Golden Gloss joined them and they walked slowly over to the station for District 7. They went to apologise for what had always been going to happen. Still, the three young victors wanted to say sorry for the fear in Gaige's eyes and the blood on Barra's boots. They didn't say any of that, though. They looked down and only Avery offered up a soft word. _Maybe that's why I never know what to say to him, _Annabel thought. _A victor from 2 who isn't growling all the time. _Avery placed a cup of coffee by Blight's elbow. The only reply they got was a splash on their shoes, bitterness soaking quickly into the carpet. And Gaige was still dead.

Later, Annabel was still awake for the graveyard shift. Since her clients would sleep until mid morning, she could afford to stay up late. Merit would take the early morning slot. As she sat there, Annabel did not want to admit to herself that she was reluctant to sleep. Like many victors, she often went back to her arena in the dark of night. Sometimes she dreamed of Corrin and Arlen cutting the rope that held her above the rocks, and they were frightening. But the dreams that had her shivering with cold sweat were the ones where she held her daggers and grinned. So she watched the screen and tried to lose herself in someone else's ordeal. Cyra shook Fallon awake for his turn to keep watch. Fallon picked up his mace and leant against the side of the horn, looking wistfully up at the dark bulk of the mountains. He caught a moth and held its thick body between his fingers. Helplessly, the frail wings beat against his hand. Annabel grimaced when he crushed it. She got up and crossed to where Dirk sat. Each year, 2 brought half a dozen mentors. There was an unofficial rule that no more were allowed on the mentoring floor, but 2 was the only district who could have broken it. Dirk could have left the station to the others, but he liked the feeling of being with his nephew. He would be one of the victors to eat and sleep there for the rest of the Games.

"We're meant to be rivals," he said tiredly.

"I know."

Dirk smelt of sweat and strong, dark coffee. He was wearing black for the Capitol again, and Annabel remembered the recaps of his arena. A younger Dirk had dragged himself out of the searing heat with sheer determination as much as strength. She wondered if Fallon would do the same. _But he can't, _she thought guiltily.

"It feels like the calm before the storm," Annabel muttered.

On Dirk's screen, Fallon paced around the horn, keeping himself awake. She watched him take something from his pocket – his token – and pass the little metal disc between his fingers. Annabel had to admit that the Lockyers had hit on a clever strategy. For three generations – and four tributes – they had brought out that medal and reminded the Capitol that Taro Lockyer fought for the Capitol before he was a victor. In his interview, Fallon showed it off. It did not matter that he blushed and stumbled through the time limit. Caesar had drawn the comparison between the gruff, scarred victors in his family and asked if Fallon had any scars already. Naively, Fallon took off his shirt to show off an ugly, puckered scar over his stomach. It looked simply and accidentally brilliant, but Annabel supposed that Avery had let Caesar fuck him back stage to get that question. Barra's quick, aggressive self-confidence and Nerissa's knowing smile had not worked as well. Annabel watched the screen now a little resentfully.

"There'll be plenty of kills tomorrow," Dirk said.

Annabel knew he was right. If the career pack did not find a way to take out their energy they would fight, and Dirk would have his kills. Annabel had already calculated the complex equation and she did not like the answer. She added Fallon and Cyra's training, Barra's taunts, and most all, the cut on Nerissa's leg. The camera followed Fallon around the curve of the horn. The gases rising from the marsh still shimmered, but they were eerie in the dark. Fallon's jaw was set tight with anxiety and she did not blame him. As the reeds rubbed softly together in the still air, Annabel realised what had been unsettling her; there were no bird calls, nor sound of any creature but the odd peep in the rushes. Fallon felt it too, sticking closer to the horn.

"I'm sorry about your girl," Dirk said.

"I know you want your nephew to win," she said, wilfully blind.

"Not that. I mean her leg. I am sorry."

Annabel turned resolutely back to the screen and raised her chin. Her sinuses burned with the warning of tears. She watched Fallon hesitate then move off to investigate a noise in the reeds, but he found nothing. He did not really want to. When his back was turned, a shadow rippled along the side of the horn. Crouched and hungry, it disappeared back into the night before Fallon saw it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: Thanks to AprilLittle and OnyxJinx for some lovely chats and help with the plot of this chapter. Also, for naming my magazine.**

The cannons started soon on Day 2. In the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, the little shadow that slunk around the careers' camp merged into the boy from District 6. He crept out of the reeds and slipped up to the mouth of the horn. There was a lean, rat-like courage in his eye. It was fuelled by hunger and thirst, and he wasn't the only tribute feeling it. He had his hands on a pack, carelessly left there, when Silk's gaze pinned him. Like a rat, he had been caught far from his bolthole, and he was to pay the price for it.

Annabel had left for her bed, so it was Merit who was awake to watch. Quietly, he got up and went to stand at District 1's station. Old Carnelian had authorised Silk a gift of slim throwing knives, still expensive even so early in the games, and now she plied them. Dirk joined them as the other careers woke and shrugged themselves free of the nets. He was fuelled by adrenaline as much as thick, black coffee, and the pills Enobaria fetched for him. The mentors stood silently as Silk reluctantly passed out her knives. The boy stopped screaming just as the horizon started to lighten. None of the victors voiced their thoughts, but they were thick in air around them. _Shit, you boy was turned on, wasn't' he? Silk was keen. Fallon didn't like it at the start, but he got into it pretty fucking quick. _When the cannon did sound, the three of them quietly crossed the room to stand by District 6's station. Deena turned to them with her morphling sunken eyes bright. Even the drugs had not been able to turn the spray of blood into a rainbow. They sure as hell had not blocked out the screams.

When the careers went out to hunt, they were not the only ones. They left the Cornucopia, the sun low but hot on the horizon, and Nerissa stayed behind again. Barra was aggressive, and others were too drained by the heat to argue with it. As they set out to hunt, the youngest tribute – the girl from 3 – woke to the sting of teeth on her fingers. She stumbled to her feet and ran. But her attackers were many, and they were always ahead of her. The little creatures were lithe and light enough to cling to the reeds with their claws, and the wide flaps of skin between their fore and hind limbs let them glide. They looked lazy as they pursued her, but when they went in for a bite, they raised their frills like tiny monsters. Stumbling and sobbing, the girl ran for half an hour, but even her fear was not enough to drive her along in the heat. When she pissed herself, she did not even blush. The little water dragons chittered in the reeds ahead and the girl gave up running. She might have got away if she had tried. Agile Lux would have, and some of the other careers might have crushed enough of the mutts to make the others wary. She lay down in the mud and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook with desperate sobs, and later, after the cannon fired, the nips and squabbles of the water dragons made it seem that the body was still trembling.

The careers killed another out in the marsh, and Deena dropped her headset to the floor. District 6 was the first out this year. The kill was not slow, but it was not quick, either. All of the careers had a death to their names now, for Silk was given credit for the boy who felt all their blades as the sun rose. Cyra had already broken the girl's leg with her mace, but they were arguing what to do with her. Barra wanted another show. Fallon had been holding the girl down for his partner, his boot on her neck, but they all jumped when her cannon fired. Her face was flushed and dark. Fallon stepped away sheepishly. The statisticians gave Cyra the kill and Fallon the assist, for it had been an accident.

But the worst came when the afternoon sun slanted low. The shimmering veils of gas were deceptive, playing with terrain and distance. The frustration showed on the faces of the careers who wanted to stretch out for a good run. They wanted to feel rocks under their feet. All of them, except Barra, were looking more and more often to the mountains. And Annabel watched it from _District Zero _where all the drinks were served with a candied reed and a shining vapour coming off the top. Something mildly hallucinogenic in it made the colours in the room grow bright. While the tributes sweated it out in their dirty camouflage, Annabel was in red. It was a conscious decision – bold colours for confidence, to remind her potential sponsors that she had done this before. She wasn't the only victor there. Annabel was surprised not to see Leda, but then, Leda had been missing at many of the key events even in the lead up to the Games. Enobaria, Avery and Gloss were working the floor. Tonight, it belonged to the careers, just as the arena did. Without a handy weapon none of the kids from the other districts had managed to make a kill, and they were unlikely to. Simply staying alive rarely brought sponsorship. Sometimes, a parachute could herald the dead of a tribute, marking their location when their strategy was to hide.

Annabel sat next to Templesmith's eldest son. The boy was not out of his teens but Annabel did not mind. _He'll be nice and quick tonight, _she thought, _and won't expect anything fucked up. _Annabel was not quite a birthday present, but it was Tobias' first Games season, and she was there to show him a good time. _Nice young boy. Too young to know what he wants. Give him a nice young victor who won't scare the shit out of him. _

"Let me get you another drink," Annabel purred. She raised her hand slightly to catch the attention of an avox. Tobias protested weakly but she flashed him a smile. "Have some fun. It's all on me tonight."

Elsewhere, Gloss looked lost without his sister. He had won first but most people seemed to forget that. She was told to volunteer to capitalise on her twin's success, but she had the charisma to outshine him. Annabel saw Avery lounging at the bar, talking to a sponsor of his own. He leant back on the stool, legs casually parted, but it was a calculated act. Avery usually sat down when he was with a client; it was hard to beg looking down into someone's eyes. Annabel rested her hand on the boy's thigh and he looked there. She tipped his chin up to meet her gaze. He had green eyes that might have even been natural. She smiled more gently than she usually did. _Guess I'm his first whore, _she thought. When the drinks arrived, she pretended to look annoyed as she pulled away to take them. Tobias put his hand on hers.

"What do you think?" She paused and saw his confusion. _Of me. _"The drinks, or the tributes."

"It's a strong field." He parroted his father.

"Anyone you really like?"

Tobias never answered. On the screens by the bar, the life-size careers gave the impression they were about to walk out among the patrons. Barra led, as usual, Lux and Fallon out on the flanks, for they had leant quickly that following the same path made the thick, black mud emerge from beneath the ground cover. The girls were close enough to talk, but they did not. They were all returning to their camp. Then, the Games stopped being a background to the whispers and the flirtation. Conversations ceased on a ragged note, and Cyra's scream _cut. _Someone dropped a glass.

The desperation in her voice was worse when she called for her partner. He was always going to be too late – Cyra was dead the moment she fell into the pool and the water touched her skin. It just took a few moments for her to realise. Still, he called her name back like a lifeline, and bounded over to her. The algae made it hard for her to swim and the edges of the pond melted away from her reaching fingers. Fallon was lucky not to fall in himself and he caught her hand.

"Hang on," he pleaded.

But then, she screamed again. There was no fear this time, but a wild, animal sound of pain. The acid ripped up her body like fire. While the Capitol drank, she burnt. Skin and then muscle were pared back to the bone and still the screaming continued. Then, her tongue dissolved. For a moment her eyeballs were round in her skill, and then they were gone, too. Her scream echoed around the bar and the arena. Nobody spoke. The screen showed a close up of Fallon's face. For a heartbeat, it was horrified shock, and then he realised he was still holding a handful of her finger bones. The acid had not burnt his skin; it was a trap built for one. An action replay followed quickly. Cyra died, three times more, before an avox hurried to clean the broken glass and the spell was shattered. The Capitolites turned away; nobody wanted to watch Fallon trembling and heaving on his hands and knees. When the Games finished a week later, a crew would drain the pond and collect Cyra's bones. Enobaria and Brutus would do all they could, but her skeleton would still be strung up in a Games museum along with the weapons used to win, and a live tank of water dragon mutts. Cyra's mentors would not tell her family. They would say that bones in the casket were real.

"I…I was going to sponsor her."

In the hot lights of the club, Tobias' face was pale and sweaty. Annabel drew her arm around the boy's shoulders and murmured softly in his ear because his father had written out a cheque.

"You want to go somewhere else, maybe?" she whispered. "Could just be us. We don't have to watch if you don't want."

"Why?" His features settled into a bemused frown, but Annabel recoiled from the excitement that lingered there. "That was…amazing."

She ended the night with the boy. He came in her mouth, then inside her, each time ready for more. When she gathered her clothing at the end of their allotted time, he called her back. In the dim light of the screen in his bedroom, the boy's eyes were like dark pits.

"I enjoyed myself," he said, hesitant once more. "I'd sponsor Nerissa, if, you know, her leg wasn't stuffed."

Back on her floor, the Games were playing, too. Annabel did not look at the screen as she went for the shower. But once she had scrubbed the feel of the boy from her face and thighs, she sat down to watch. It was not her shift to mentor, but nobody really got away from it. A split screen showed the Cornucopia in the dark, and a late-night interview. Fallon sat away from the others with his hands wrapped around his knees. He did not look eighteen –nearly nineteen – and he was crying quietly. Annabel saw him look up to catch a parachute. _How fucked up is it, to send a knife to comfort a crying child?_ Hesitantly, Fallon glanced up at the dark clouds and whispered a thank you like he had been taught. A moment later, he got another gift, this time a rich stew. It was the wrong food for the sweltering arena, but Fallon' shy smile said it was what he was used to at home. On the other side of the screen, Dirk assured the camera that while Fallon had been rocked by his partner's death, he was still in good shape.

When the camera shifted, it was Merit who gave the next interview. Annabel gripped her seat. Nerissa was hidden in the shadows of the horn, and Barra sat by her. Slowly, she eased down her trousers. The others would not notice; Silk and Lux were asleep, and Fallon could not see much past the memory of his partner's dark hair against the pale bone of her skull. The camera moved closer to the capture the hard lines of pain on Nerissa' face, then it showed her leg. In the bars and parties over the Capitol, people shivered with real revulsion. This was not a quick and practised kill, nor a fumbling, desperate battle – people died like this in the districts every day. Her leg had swollen, the flesh red and weeping puss. The boy from District 11 could not have known he had delivered a deathblow. But the heat had made it so. Annabel clenched her fists in her lap and she remembered the sly look on Barra's face when he pocketed the antiseptic. There was not the money to send Nerissa more, for sponsors who had promised help looked evasively past Annabel's pleas. Arriane had patted her hand. _I'll save it for next year, my dear, and we'll see if you can do any better. _Tears came to Annabel's eyes, and to Nerissa's. The corruption was starting to sink into her blood.

"You've always been a straight talker, Merit," the reporter said off screen. "So go on, what are her chances?"

Merit sighed and spread his hands, and Annabel felt a flash of anger. She wondered if he had given up on her so easily, when she was wandering the pit, weak with dehydration, or had he done so earlier, when she was just fourteen years old and Bren Pierpoint was nearly a man? Merit's face was so carefully arranged, she wanted to shatter it and scatter the pieces.

"Honestly, Noni, I wouldn't bet on her. With that leg…" He dropped his hands helplessly back to his lap. "I don't like saying this about my tributes, but like you said, I have to state it like it is. Put your money on Barra Runyan for District 4."

"Even though your fellow mentor, Annabel, is close to Nerissa?"

"The thing about mentoring, Noni, is you've got to make strong, clear decisions. Right now, I want to focus on Barra because he's got more than a good chance."

_This is what a career district is, _she thought, dashing angry tears from her eyes. _It's not just training. It's being ruthless._ And she was right. The less popular districts might hope for a miracle and clutch at straws, and if Nerissa had been the only tribute left from District 4, the team would be working tirelessly for her. But they had Barra. The career mentors had made cold, hard decisions in their games, and they made them still. They were used to bringing home victors. Even Dirk, giving his interviews, kept the obvious affection from his voice because he did not want the sponsors to think of Fallon as a child. And Merit – he told everyone that Nerissa had no hope, ensuring all possible sponsorship would go to the healthy tribute, even if he liked to stick knives in other children and twist them.

Though it was well after midnight, Annabel called for Portia. On the phone, Annabel asked her to bring something that would draw the eye and hold it fast. The young woman came quickly, with an enquiring tilt to her head and worry hidden deep in her frown. And she brought a dress that slithered over her arm, soft like an eel. When Annabel put it on, she felt air on her skin and she nodded grimly. If she stood still, the strips of chiffon settled to cover her but for a wide split up her thigh. When she moved, she could show off everything she had to offer. Annabel held still while Portia painted a whore's makeup on her face. She did not tell the young woman where she was going.

Annabel did not call a car until she reached the foyer. She met Avery there, coming back from his date, and she could read his thoughts across his face. _Got to get the fuck out of these clothes. _He smelt like sex and sweat – or maybe she just expected it. If she noticed he was limping, she said nothing about it. Avery caught her eye but did not try to hold it. He did not bother to ask what she was doing out so late. She waited to call for a car until he had slipped into the elevator, and she lurked among the shadows of the marble columns. Annabel was afraid if she told another victor they would talk her out of it. A part of her looked for any excuse to turn around and take off the dress that slithered over her skin. But another remembered a fourteen-year-old girl who thought that she had been forgotten there in the searing pit. And she remembered the girl's joy –her joy – when she got a flask of water. So when the car slid up to the entrance, Annabel did not hesitate.

Leda had warned her about this. Four years ago, she told the girl about diseases and pregnancy and she explained the drugs that would keep her clean with knowledge like a doctor would have. And she also warned Annabel about people like this. The victors belonged to Snow and there was just one official license for things of this was held by the editor of _Victors Uncut _but he bought his models by permission of the president, and that would do Annabel no good tonight. She had exhausted her regular sponsors, and she had not been able to think of any deal she could close as quickly as this. So she told the avox driver to take her out into the fourth circle. The irony made her mouth twist into a sour smile; the president had never forbidden the victors to sell themselves if he left them time.

While Nerissa lay awake and tried to convince herself that her fever was just from the fierce heat of the marsh, Annabel sold her dignity. Byron Toth was still awake at this hour, and it did not surprise her; people like him did not thrive in the sunlight. She wondered if he had a model upstairs even as he spoke to her in the dim foyer of his office. Annabel knew well that she and the other mentors were not the only ones to be sold; they were just the most expensive, and the magazines Toth ran were sold side by side with _Victors. _

"I'm looking for a sponsor."

"You're just tits and a cunt to me," he said, and the worst part was the he meant it.

"You know I'll be good for your sales."

His instructions were not simple, but at least his set was clean. For small mercies Annabel was grateful. She let him position her like a doll. Her dress had not been hard to remove. He called for his model and the young man was already undressed. The camera clicked softly and it felt even worse than Toth's eyes on her, but Annabel had learnt to be a good actor. Of course, Toth was notorious for sleeping with his models, too. But after he had satisfied his camera, and his own lust, he told her that she would get her sponsorship when the exclusive issue of _Dermois__é_ came out the next evening.

As the sun crept up over the Kellies, Annabel scrubbed her skin raw. It had been years since she had needed to strip more than just her clothes to rid herself of the feeling of hands on her body. Toth had not even touched her – much. But she lathered and scrubbed as if she could make herself a different person by the time his magazine reached the shelves. Perhaps she could wash away the memory and become a different girl, not the one who would fill the pages of _Dermois__é. _By tonight, there would be slickened fingers pouring over the pages. _Just tits and a cunt, he said. _But she had known that. She was used to being sold; what hurt was that this time, it really looked like her choice, and there would be some who would think it had been.

A sunrise could never be an ugly thing, but few were awake to witness it in the Capitol. Once she had showered and dressed, Annabel sat quietly on the couch and tuned into the Games. The sun was rising there, too, and for a time, it made the horn glow like a beacon and the marsh was softened. For the first time, Annabel thought the arena was beautiful. It was a still morning, and the camera panned slowly over the career camp. Only Barra and Nerissa were awake to watch the sunrise. They lay together quietly, just touching, as the sun rose. The soft light was kind to them, for it smoothed out the rough lines of Barra's face and it lent Nerissa a kind of beauty to cover the fever-sweat on her skin. Annabel wondered how long they had been up.

"Can you tell me the truth?" Nerissa asked quietly.

"Maybe."

In the soft dawn light, Barra's voice was gentler than Annabel had ever heard it, and his smile was different. For the first time, she wondered if he and Nerissa had ever done more than hide away at the coves off Summerall's and touch each other. She wondered if they had ever talked.

"Why'd you get sent to the _Docks_?"

"You know that."

"I mean, why'd you do it to that kid?"

He was quiet for a moment, and he looked to check that the others would not hear. Then, when he started to speak quietly, Annabel remembered that Barra's family had not come up from the Southern Horn to say goodbye to him after the Reaping. The night before, he had left bruises around Finn's neck, but Annabel still felt a queer twist of guilt when she thought of Barra passing the hour in the Justice Building all alone.

"I had this dog, Jolly," he said slowly. "Guess he was a bit of everything, but Mum let me keep him. Used to go swimming with me, stuff like that. Balanced him on an old surfboard, once. He was scared shitless but I made him stay there. So, I saw this kid, Rass, few years older than me, down at the pier. He was laughing at something. He chucked Jolly off the pier and ran away. Jolly, he – he looked all funny underwater, legs looked rippley like seaweed. There were a couple of bricks tied to his collar."

Barra hesitated and it seemed he was speaking more to himself than the girl who lay next to him. Annabel wondered if he had ever admitted this before. With the sun cresting the horizon and Nerissa's eyes on his face, he made himself continue.

"Guess Rass was as fucked up as me. I went and found him and held him underwater until a peacekeeper caught us. I just – just wanted him to know how it felt."

"Thanks for telling me the truth," she said quietly.

When the other careers started to stir, Barra and Nerissa remembered themselves. He left her there, waiting in the mouth of the horn, pretending to guard the camp with a mace that she no longer had the strength to wield. Nobody talked much as they gathered up their water and food for the day and Barra led them off into the marsh again. But before they were out of earshot, he turned around and called _goodbye. _Annabel watched it all with tears in her eyes as the sun rose to strip away the beauty the marsh had held so briefly. In that moment, she did not know who she was crying for.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note: Warning for violent rape and (slight) degrading pornography. Thanks again to OnyxJinx and AprilLittle for helping me with some plot here.**

Nerissa never became a killer. Years later, when Annabel thought about what taking lives had done to them all, when she still woke up in the night with the feel of a dirk in her hand and blood in her mouth, she was glad, but it was a hollow sort of comfort. The marsh simmered, the mountains reared tall, and the girl from District 4 stopped fighting for breath. The infection had raced through her body with a fierce speed that was bred in the Capitol laboratories. While the sun was still high in the sky at noon, Nerissa gathered her strength and eased her ugly uniform pants down to her knees. Her leg festered, red and black, and she wanted everyone in the Capitol to see exactly what they had done to her. It was the only act of rebellion in the brutal 69th Games. The victor who finally emerged would be a proven killer, smiling tiredly as they walked to the hovercraft's waiting ladder. The cameras turned away from Nerissa's dying. The sun still rode high on the third day when her cannon fired.

Annabel sat by her console on the mentoring floor. The sound of the cannon reverberated in her chest, trapped there like a faltering heartbeat. At first she did not even think of the way she had let Byron Toth's model tie her up while the man himself crouched behind the camera. Annabel remembered the way Nerissa used to sneer at her friendship with Finn, and how she thrived on the ugly side of gossip and drama. She remembered how Nerissa had known without asking when she had a desperate crush on Finn's older brother. They used to hitch a ride out to Surr's Cove, lounging on the deck of Captain Fuller's trawler. Sometimes they played around with the pearl divers. Nerissa had given her explicit instructions about how to go about her first kiss, pouting her lips until she looked like a gasping fish, and they both laughed. After the bloody end to the 65th Games, Annabel rarely had time for her friends. _You'll have your sponsorship by tomorrow night. _

She cried. The hollow space inside her started to fill with a heavy guilt, and the knowledge that she had failed one more tribute. Later, the girl would feel grateful to the way the career mentors reacted – they had done it all before. Dimly she heard their voices. Someone left to find Merit or Merle on the plaza. It was Dirk who put his hands on her shoulders and guided her firmly off the floor. On the screen, the remaining careers looked around edgily for the source of the cannon. They did not like to think there were others hunting in the marsh. Annabel had yet to see Dirk leave his station while his nephew was in view. But he led her out into the wide lounge reserved for the victors and let her sit. Annabel dropped onto a low couch as if she were sleepwalking. Back out on the main floor, Avery asked Enobaria if she'd cover Annabel's date with him that night; if the client got two victors, they would not complain at the sudden shift. Dirk put a hand on her shoulder. Annabel leant forwards and covered her face with her hands. She appreciated his quiet presence, but more than anything, the girl wanted her mother. She wanted to feel safe and held, to breathe in perfume and sea air and drying fish. Annabel wanted to be a child again. But Mella Cresta was a thousand miles away, and just as far from understanding what her daughter went through every day in the glittering Capitol, and the memories she battled when she came home. Annabel almost asked Dirk to use her childhood nickname – _Annie. _

"Fuck, Dirk, you need to watch," Avery called from the doorway.

Annabel felt the pressure as he squeezed her shoulder before he left. She wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. When she slipped sideways to curl on the couch, Annabel barely noticed. And the Games moved relentlessly on. There were still many hours of daylight left, but Barra told his allies he was going back. He offered no explanation, but they knew he needed to see for himself if the cannon had been for Nerissa. On the way back, they flushed out the girl from 5 who had been crouching among the reeds. For a moment the careers were as shocked as she was, but they recovered themselves first. The girl was already weak with dehydration for there was very little good water in the marsh, and it was not much of a kill. Silk dug into the girl's skin with one of her knives, but Annabel did not hear the screams. It was a small blessing for the mentors that they could rest somewhere without seeing a screen. Barra warred with impatience and sick excitement while Lux and Silk showed the special skills they had picked up in training. Fallon lost his nerve and snapped the girl's neck when it was his turn. After seeing Cyra's body twist and shudder in agony until the acid burnt away her feeling, he had lost his taste for it. They moved on quickly. In death the girl they left behind did not look like she was sleeping, for there was pain still etched in the lines on her face.

Annabel did not see the ugliest part of the Games. At least, not until it was replayed again and again for the salivating audiences. Barra stood in the empty mouth of the horn and his face closed down. He bent to pick up Nerissa's water bottle and ran his thumb slowly over the lip. When he tossed it down in anger, his allies tensed.

"She's gone."

"No shit."

Silk rolled her eyes. And then, she felt the poison in the look Barra gave her. She recoiled as if it had been a cut from one of her delicate little knives. The tension in the air was like electricity. All four careers shifted uncomfortably, and none of them wished to voice the words clawing up their throats. _I think it's time we split. _Even Fallon picked up the feeling, the threat. Lux was already edging away from the others. Each of them had a strategy for this moment, for they had been taught that it was just as dangerous as the bloodbath. They watched each other, their breathing quick. Fear was written over every tense line of their bodies – fear and excitement. At bars and parties, the Capitol audiences paused over their drinks. And then Silk moved. It was not to fight, but to run. It was all instinct that made Barra lunge for her, but what he did next was cruelly calculated. Silk slipped past him, but not Fallon. He caught her by the collar of her shirt and swung her against the horn. The fabric tore in his hand. Perhaps that was what gave Barra the idea, or maybe he had been planning it since Silk volunteered in a tight dress of silver. He was on her. Dazed from the blow, she did not recover herself until Barra's weight was heavy on her. It happened every few Games, and the usual perpetrators were the career boys, so full of killing, and realising that it was not enough to show off to one another.

The reeds opened to take Lux as he slunk away, for his partner provided the distraction. There was a sad sort of satisfaction on his face that said he was glad at least he would not be the one to kill her. But Fallon hesitated. Later, he would bitterly regret not taking such an easy target, but his face was suffused with lust as much as Barra's was.

"You going to fucking help me hold her?" Barra snapped.

It was violent, but that was not new to the Games. What was worst was that nobody forced the boys to do what they did. They killed because they had been taught as children that if they were strong enough, they could stand on the stage and make their districts proud, but they did not have to do this. Silk had volunteered not because her lush looks would sway the cameras, but because she was trained for it. She might have fought off Barra if she was quick and clever, willing to play along until she could drive a knife in his guts, but it did not work that way. Her struggles acted to fuel him on, and then Fallon held her down. Silk screamed, and she tried to free her hands, tried to do as her trainers had taught her, but she was badly overpowered. As she fought, she only increased their excitement. Her trainers had shown her how to fight _dirty_ but they had not been able to give her the low sort of cunning she needed. When she managed to pull a knife from her belt, Fallon broke two of her fingers wrestling it off her. He put a hand over her mouth to muffle her wild screams.

Barra tore the girl's shirt open. He shoved his hands up under her bra and dug his fingers into her flesh. He was hard in seconds. Face eager and alight, he ripped her pants down and pushed her legs apart with his hands. Silk twisted and kicked and her screams turned to sobs when Barra forced a finger inside her.

"Fucking dry," he spat. "Only thing in this place."

Barra thrust roughly into her again and again. She choked on her sobs and her words were mixed with little cries like a wounded animal. She begged for it to be over. But Barra just laughed, and Fallon's face was alight with the same eager lust. He was hard, too. The afternoon sun seared with cruel intent but the careers barely noticed. A few kilometres away the lanky girl from District 11 staggered through the marsh while it turned to grasping quicksand beneath her feet. The cameras turned away from her – they preferred the humiliation and pain in Silk's eyes. Nobody would have guessed that she was a virgin while she flirted with the audience in her interview. Soon, her struggles stopped. When Barra came, he cuffed her around the face. He got to his feet and kicked her in the ribs. Fallon got up out of the way and Barra kicked her again. Silk spat blood and shattered teeth on the ground, and she did not try to get up. Broken and bleeding, she lay there, and the boys stood above her with savage, ugly pleasure in their eyes. Silk started to sob again. She cradled her hand to her chest.

"Your go," Barra said.

On the mentoring floor, Cashmere sat transfixed. Her eyes were wide, and there was a desperate sort of anger in them. She felt Silk's shame, too. None of the mentors could fail to think of their worst times, the clients who made them want to show their true sides – to show they were killers. Dirk pushed his chair over and the sound was very loud in the room. He clenched his fists at his sides.

"You don't have to do this, Fallon," he growled.

Fallon's hands went quickly to his pants. Everyone could see how desperate he was to get off. But then, the excitement leeched from his face, and he frowned. It was not Silk's sobs that changed his mind. His brows drew together and he dropped his hands to his sides.

"I don't think my uncle would like it," he said quietly, and he was thinking, _don't know if I could do it with everyone watching. _

"Weak," Barra spat.

In the shadow of the golden horn, Fallon picked up his mace to show Barra that he was not. He would not fuck Silk in front of the nation, but he killed her. Her face tore and came away on the spiked head of his mace. Then, the boys stared at each other over Silk's body. Barra's face curled into an ugly sneer. Quietly, he reached for his mace. They circled around each other, like the strays who scrapped in the alleys along the Shoreline.

"Fuck off, Lockyer."

It was Barra's confidence that won their standoff. Fallon dropped his gaze, and watching Barra from the corner of his eye, he picked up a pack and backed away. Barra's thoughts were clear in the tense line of his shoulders, the way his hand clenched around the handle of his mace. _Maybe he'll get an injury, or someone'll kill him. Maybe he'll fall into one of those fucking pools and burn. _Slowly his tension bled away, and Barra watched his ally out of sight. He stood there while the heat pressed down, and raised his chin as if he did not feel it. In Barra's mind, he had won a fight, and the sponsors felt it too. Before he turned to go, he gave Silk's body another kick. Midges had already settled on the raw meat of her face. He only remembered the knives at her belt when he heard the low hum of the hovercraft. Barra took them and jogged sure-footed into the marsh.

It was only luck –good or bad – that sent him off in the direction Lux had taken. The boy from 1 had moved quickly, but he was caught in a tangle of channels that curled around like fingers and he was forced to go back the way he came. As the channels opened in front of him, Lux's composure began to crack and his breaths came fast. But Barra jogged confidently and the soft ground made him silent. Lux turned to see him far too late. Barra flung a knife, and it was not a killing blow, but it sunk into the meat of Lux's shoulder. It was a chase, but Barra was always going to end it. He loped easily after Lux, waiting until heat and loss of blood made his task easier. There was a certain sort of irony when Barra caught up to Lux and put his knife to work again.

When the cannon sounded, Cashmere tossed down her headset and went to seek comfort in her brother's arms. The escorts were busy that day as they monitored the storm of media. District 1 was out before the sun had set on the third day, and they were an embarrassment. Dirk gave a grim-faced interview while Caesar asked if Fallon had always had a problem following through. For the first time in the Games, Barra was ranked the favourite.

Annabel did not go back to the mentoring floor. If she heard an angry shout, a door slamming, she did not bother to find out why. She stayed in the lounge until Merit returned from a meeting. _He gets to keep his clothes on, _she thought bitterly. When he sat down beside her, Annabel stood stiffly and crossed to the door. He did not try to stop her. Avery had taken her date off her hands, and she would not go back to the plaza to beg and flatter by turns – not for Barra. She went back to her floor of the tribute tower, and there it was habit to glance at the screen and check the progress of the Games. She stood there, transfixed by Barra's brutal thrusts as the replay cycled through again. Annabel trembled with anger. And though there was nobody to hear her – except Snow's bugs in the walls – she screamed. Silk whimpered in the replay but Annabel cried out with anger and pain. She thought of her sister, Rhea, taken against a wall by a peacekeeper who had too much power, and she thought of her clients. She watched Barra's ugly choice, and she knew she should not be surprised. It was almost worse to see the way Fallon's earnest features twisted into a leer. He'd blushed his way through his interview with Caesar. _If they all die in there, _she thought, _that's fucking fine with me. _

As Annabel's anger left her, she found the baggiest clothes she could and covered up her body, disguised her form, and let her hair hang loose over her face. She lay on the couch with her face pressed against the cool leather. When she found the energy to move again, it was to bring her knees up to her chest, huddled like a child. Annabel cried quietly again, and she could feel eyes roving over her body. Tonight, thousands really would. A few years ago, Gloss had been involved in a scandal when his client took and sold pictures of him to _Flash! _The other victors had looked at him with sympathy, for it had not been his choice, and the client was probably serving the Capitol as an avox, now. But Annabel cringed when she thought of how they would see her when the pictures came out. They would understand, she hoped, but would still look at her as if she did belong between the pages of one of Toth's filthy magazines. The president would simply smile. It always amused him to see his victors so utterly debauched – and broken. He never touched them, but sometimes Snow watched and listened from cameras he usually used to spy on his officials.

When Merit returned, leaving the mentoring floor to Merle, he paused quietly in the doorway. Annabel heard him there but she did not turn. Outside, it was a bright, clear day. The sky stretched wide and blue over the mountains and the Capitol. It was a mockery of the stifling blanket of cloud over the arena. He sat opposite her.

"You know I'm sorry," Merit said softly.

"I bet the sponsors love Barra now," she spat. "You do."

"No, I don't," he said heavily. "He…went further than he needed to. Mostly, the sponsors like it, but if he gets out of the arena, he's going to have a shock when they want to hold him down like that."

"Good."

"Annabel, you understand that Nerissa had no chance, don't you?" He sighed. "I might not like Barra, but it's our job to bring someone home if we can. If it had been Barra with the injury, we'd have looked to Nerissa. Hell, if Fallon got hurt and they still had Cyra, District 2's team would forget about him, even if he's Dirk's family."

Annabel rolled over slowly. She sat up to look Merit full in the face. He held her gaze steadily. Down on the plaza, new bets were placed and the replays were still being shown. Annabel rarely thought of him as a killer – it was so long ago. But he had a killer's cold indifference when he spoke about Nerissa in his interview. Merit Gannon was chosen in the preliminary reaping up on the Northern Peninsula, and his named had been called again at the main ceremony down in Bombay. He was no career, but a seventeen-year-old who looked strong enough to handle himself. When he walked to the stage, he had the sense to swagger as if the ten years he had worked on his uncle's boat had taught him everything he needed to know. And once he got to the arena, he acted just like a career. He tickled trout from the woodland streams and found that throwing rocks at gulls as a child came in handy. The sponsors liked his practical attitude enough to send him a hunting knife.

"If…if I was in the pit and Bren got out, would you have let me starve?"

There was a long pause, a stretch of cold silence. On the screen, the creeping quicksand finally caught the dark girl from District 11. She stated to sink as she struggled. Merit raised and lowered his hand calmly and the volume cut. Annabel could still see the girl swearing and screaming without sound as she sunk to her thighs. Merit had his back to it. Annabel remembered the searing heat and the way she had seen harpies instead of the vultures that flew heavily to race the hovercrafts for the dead. She did not release Merit's gaze.

"We didn't, did we? You got water when you really needed it."

"But if – if he was in the jungle and I wasn't, you'd have sent him food and not bothered to try to help me. You'd have watched me die."

"If it had come down to a choice who to put our energy into, then yes, we would have picked Bren." He stood up sharply and looked down at her. Suddenly, it was Merit holding Annabel's gaze captive. "Why does it surprise you? You think we get to stop killing after we win?"

The water splashed cold on her face. Annabel leant on the sink and looked into her own eyes in the mirror. She brought a dripping handful up to her lips as if to remind herself she was not fourteen years old, waiting to die of dehydration, and wondering if the beast would tear her apart first. The baby fat had melted from her cheeks in the arena, and now Annabel looked at a young woman who had killed and beaten the odds. She would be nineteen in little over a month. The Capitol would throw a party as they had each year, taking the excuse to extend the Games season. Admirers would hang jewels around her neck but they would feel like collars for a slave. The more extravagant the gifts the more she would have to do to repay them. The best birthday present last year had been to escape to District 2 for a night. She was not allowed to go as far as home, but it had been good to put her back to the Capitol's lights.

There was a thick envelope resting on her bed when Annabel returned from the bathroom. She looked at it like a coiled snake. The glossy cover of _Dermois__é _slid out into her hands – a special release, for of course Toth could not wait for his regular publication date. Annabel tasted bile in the back of her throat. A note slithered out onto her lap. _Don't want to cheat you. I'll put my money with your boy. I like his style._ She cried again, twisting the magazine between her fingers. _I'd rather he cheated me, _she thought. Her image was the cover, and it did not take long to find the exclusive. Her name splashed across two pages, and an old picture of her as she stood on the stage to receive a crown of laurels. Tears made her vision blur – she had not cried so much since Leda explained exactly what it was to be a victor. The pictures that followed were all tanned skin and ropes – but they were not ropes, but made to look like the acid green vines in the jungle she remembered. The feel of them on her was worse than the hands of Toth's model. Somewhere, her tears turned to laughter without a hint of mirth. Her hysteria built. There was a dildo – acid green – thrust up her backside. _Only a fucking slut would find that funny_, she thought. Shaking with laughter and sobs, she left the magazine open on the dining room table. Soon, she clutched the toilet bowl, retching and laughing with tears on her cheeks.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: Warning for very dubious consent. Thanks again to OnyxJinx for some help with plot.**

The fourth day of the Games began with a cannon. All night the girl from 11 had been trapped in the quicksand that closed over her thighs. Tears painted her cheeks and she screamed herself hoarse. At first, it had been her instinct to call for help. Soon, she begged for someone to end it. Nobody heard for the arena was large. Then, the morning sun caught on the scales of the little water dragons. They scampered out onto the quicksand, light enough not to sink, and chirped like birds in the orchards where the girl had grown up. In 11, they were not allowed to hold guns, so it was a job for children to scare the birds away with hard flung stones and slingshots. Of course, pesticides culled the birds each year. The boldest of the lizards leapt onto her shoulder. Their first nips were cautious, but before the sun fully cleared the marsh they were squabbling over the girl's eyeballs and tongue.

Slowly, the mentoring floor had emptied as more districts were eliminated. Some of the victors were even allowed to take a train home. Drunken old Chaff was shunted back to District 11, to be forgotten about for another year. Wiress was sent back to her workshop until it was time to choose another batch of children to stand and tremble before the nation. Annabel hesitated in the doorway. Tensing for an absurd second, she felt as if she were about to leap off a tribute plate. The idea of fighting her fellow victors was not pleasant. She steeled herself and strode over to where Merit sat at the console.

"You don't have to be here if you don't want," he said quietly.

Merit said nothing of the magazine she had left for him to find. Annabel raised her chin and looked over his head. She had never noticed how much grey there was in his sandy hair. She knew he had seen the pictures. _Did you turn the page? _she wondered darkly. _Did you look at everything? _Annabel had never asked Merit if he had a girlfriend back in 4 – she knew he had never married, and he was too old now to be called on dates.

"I'll watch," she replied. _But I won't go to the plaza and make a whore of myself for Barra._

Merit left and Annabel knew he would soon be up there, reminding the potential sponsors how Barra had not yet hesitated to take a life. With the last cannon there were only eight tributes left. The interviews would begin any minute. Reporters had been in place since yesterday, their questions already repeated. The crew down the Southern Horn had been camping in their hotel rooms for two days, drinking and complaining about the heat. Those sent out to Fallon's hometown in the Western Tiers had been given special permission to use a hovercraft, for it was a three-day drive up precarious switchbacks in the mountains. No reporters were sent to District 12 while their last tribute stumbled with dehydration. He died quietly after making the final eight. Small and curled in on himself, he had never had the semblance of a chance. His death was watched with less interest than a commercial break.

Annabel dropped into her seat and scanned the screen from habit. Her Games had been so short and violent, there was no time to interview her family and for that she was grateful. On the screen, a girl stood before District 9's rolling wheat fields and insisted that her best friend was going to come home. When she was asked how the boy from District 9 could hope to deal with Fallon and Barra, she said he'd just have to wait for them to kill each other. The footage cut smoothly back to arena. Barra moved purposefully through the twisting channels and concealed pools. He walked north toward the mountains for it was never a good idea to stay still for too long. The mountains wore a fresh dusting of snow but the gamemakers ensured that the cool breezes they might have sent did not reach the marsh. Annabel watched with little interest.

Avery's chair scraped and he moved to sit down next to her. Annabel wondered if the fresh snow brought back memories of his Games. The fall in his arena had been a blessing for he crawled out of his snow-cave to find the blizzard had killed eight tributes. Hunting down the rest had kept him warm. He looked at her steadily until she turned around. On the screen, Barra narrowed his eyes and backed away from something that made the reeds shake and sway.

"Not going to say I didn't see the shots."

"Least_ you _wouldn't get off on them," she muttered.

"Looks like your night ended pretty similar to mine."

"Well, lucky us." She rolled her eyes. Annabel remembered the way he had limped in the foyer and did not ask her what she was doing out so late.

Soon, Barra was surrounded by a pack of chittering water dragons. They had eaten two tributes alive already, but then those had not had a weapon. The lizards seethed up out of the ground cover, but Barra held them off. Their little bodies broke easily under his mace. He fought with his jaw set grimly while he had killed other children with a smile on his face. When the ground was littered with broken mutts, the last few scuttled back into the cover of the reeds. Barra shook himself. Annabel did not know why he looked so sad when he saw a mutt trying to drag itself away with a crushed leg. Carefully, Barra broke its back. He walked away from the trampled vines and mutts, scraping the blood off his shoes. He did not stop to dress the tiny bites and scratches they had left him until he had walked well out of sight. Annabel's eyes narrowed with useless anger when he took out the antiseptic that she had sent for Nerissa.

"Fucking bastard," she growled.

"He that bad?" Avery asked.

"You saw him yesterday."

"True." He hesitated and lowered his voice. "I'd never say it to Dirk, but Fallon's a bit of a pain in the arse. Interview coaching was a fucking nightmare. He just doesn't get it sometimes."

It was a slow morning in the Games, but the lulls were filled with interviews. Barra's parents were filmed with the waves breaking softly behind them. _Tarral's Strand_ stretched out of sight and when one of the reporters remarked on it, Barra's sister said it was fully of a jelly bloom at this time of year. She had his quick tongue. The girl was just Reaping age. His parents had been called by Merle yesterday, to brief them on what to say. His mother did not talk of what a cheeky toddler Barra had been, and his father did not mention teaching him to swim. Instead, they recounted the story of how Barra had been sent to train. When the eager reporter asked what they thought of what their son had done to Silk their eyes grew hard.

"She had to die anyway," Barra's father answered.

By the time the sun was high on noon, Fallon reached the foot of the mountains. There were no rolling foothills; the rock rose sharply out of the marsh. The tension fell away from his shoulders and a gauge flashed up on the screen to announce that the temperature up on the slopes was a good twenty degrees lower than the marsh. Fallon hauled himself up and found a trail of sorts. The terrain was rough, but he grinned with childish excitement. In seconds his odds increased and he moved as confidently as Barra did now. It did not take him long to find a stream playing over the rocks. It cascaded down in little leaps and bounds, the spray arcing, rainbow and crystal. Fallon splashed handfuls of water on his face. When he found a place where the watercourse grew deep and slower, he carefully set down his mace and pack to undress. He blushed but took his clothes off mechanically; after four days of sweating in the marsh, he was willing to brave the eyes on his body. It was always an easy way to make sure the sponsors were looking. The camera honed in on the play of muscle over his chest as he stepped into the water.

"That's such an old strategy," Annabel sniffed.

Back down in the marsh, Barra stopped when he reached the tumble of rocks at the foot of the slope. The mountains were not tall, but in the flat landscape of the arena they seemed so. They were russet and rust, brown and slate. He looked warily at the white shawl of snow on the highest peaks. Barra shook his head. He followed the natural curve until he too found a steam. The water came clear down from the rocks; it was not until it sunk into the marsh that it became sickening. Barra filled his bottles and turned away. Meanwhile, Fallon swam naked and when he climbed back out onto the bank, there was a clean set of clothes resting on a rock. There had been no parachute. It was a message from the gamemakers, from Crane – _I like it when you do that. _Shyly, Fallon stretched out to let the sun dry him. The camera panned down his body. When a parachute fell she rolled her eyes.

"Works, though." Avery shrugged.

It continued to be a quiet day in the arena. Maya's family gave an interview from the steps of the Justice Building in District 7. The sky was a deep summer blue above them, and when Maya's nervous boyfriend was asked how she survived so far, he cast his eye up as if the answer lay there. She was quick, he said, and clever. He did not say that it was purely luck and her familiarity with the sloes and the plants that grew there. His interview was given little screen time. Much more was given to Sara Lockyer and her heavily pregnant daughter. Vari told the cameras that she was not sure what would come first: her baby, or her brother's win. She spoke as if both were a certainty. Annabel watched and wondered if her own family would have spoken of her chances with the same unshakable confidence. The reporter asked Sara what she thought of her son's behaviour, and she said firmly that she did not care what he did, as long as he came home.

The avox stood by Annabel's chair and proffered a gilded tray. There was only a card upon it, and printed in plain type, a message from Seneca Crane. She had never met him in his office before. She felt a clutch in her stomach and thought of the glossy pages of _Dermois__é. _Of course Seneca knew all about the nights she spent away from her own bed, and he had never been completely faithful to her. There had been women, and men too, she was sure. _He won't like it, _she thought bitterly. _And who would? I look like a fucking whore. _She asked the avox to find Merit, Merle or Leda to take over.

There was a car waiting outside the plaza and it moved off without a word from the driver. He caught her eye in the mirror and looked away quickly. The frightened gesture sent a chill through the girl, but she clamped down on it. The arena had taught her to master fear, and her time as a victor had enforced it. There were too many things to be frightened of. All the victors lived with horror stories like Tahl Lockyer and Haymitch Abernathy. She told herself that Seneca's disappointment was a small thing to deal with. So Annabel put a smile on her face and raised her eyes to the arch that denoted the second circle of the city. Here there were offices of glass that rose like spires. Most of the business in the Capitol was done here.

Seneca's office was high in the tower and he could look out over the city. It spread below like a map, and that suited the head gamemaker. His voice was curt when he told her to come in – it was a command. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and tried to remember if Seneca's taste had always been so imposing.

"Hi." She put more warmth in her voice to cover the nervousness there. "Seneca."

He stood with his back to her. Against the plate glass of the window he made a clean, dark silhouette. He looked out over the city as if it were his arena. Annabel waited, twisting her hands together. Something about the wide, polished desk made her feel as if this were an appointment. She thought of moving to stand by him at the window but could not lift her feet from the carpet. Seneca made her wait. It had been two years since she had been nervous on a date, and she had never felt like this around the gamemaker. When he did turn, there was no warmth in his eyes. He beckoned to her.

"Stand in front of the desk," he said.

Quietly, she did as he told her. Crane watched but his gaze lingered not on her face but on her breasts and the dip of her waist. He stepped up behind her, so close she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She was not wearing heels and Seneca was taller than her now. He braced his hands either side of her on the desk and Annabel had never felt trapped in his hold before. When she turned in his arms, her gaze hopeful, Seneca grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her head back around. The girl stumbled. Before she regained her balance, Seneca bent her roughly over the table. The wood was cool beneath her skin but her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

"Seneca?" she whispered. She did not expect her own voice to sound so young and hurt.

He undid his belt and let it slither to the floor like a snake. Then without saying another word he gripped her dress and the fabric tore under his fingers. Yesterday, Fallon had nearly torn Silk's shirt from her back before Barra had her for the whole nation to see. Annabel muffled a gasp when Crane kicked her legs apart. His breathing was quick. Rarely did he sound so excited when they were together. Then, his fingers dug into her skin and he ripped her underwear out of the way. His slap stung her arse, but it was not the sting that had her fighting tears. A small, dark part of her knew that she could twist around and have her hands on his throat if she wanted to, if she could bear the consequences. She remembered how his voice would soften when he asked her _is this okay? Do you like it? _When he pushed in she gritted her teeth. This time Seneca was not gentle. His thrusts were quick and rough and he had no intent to make her squirm with pleasure beneath him. He grunted at each thrust. It was an ugly sound. He quickened his pace and his breaths were harsh. Annabel closed her eyes and her sob was muffled against the table. When he leant forward to tangle his fists in her hair it was not the caress she was used to, and his skin was hot against hers. She would have cringed away if she could. He released her hair and braced himself on her hips for one more brutal thrust. When he came, it was thick on her back and the tatters of her dress – an added insult.

"That felt good," he said icily.

Annabel waited for his hands to be soothing on her skin. She waited to hear him whisper against her hair. Instead, Seneca slipped his belt back in place and his footsteps were quick down the corridor. Annabel felt a drought from the open door on her bare arse. She heard a muffled whisper pass by. Before Toth's photos, it had been two years since she cried afterwards. Her heart had not beat quickly with desire, but shock. Now, it slowly calmed and the girl cried. They were quiet tears, her face still pressed against the cold desk as if Crane held her there.

Gradually, she mastered herself. She straightened and held her torn dress to her chest. The smell of sex lingered in the air and her back felt sticky. Annabel raised her chin and blinked tears from her eyes. Savagely, she swiped at her cheeks. Four years ago she had felt a heavy weight in her gut when she saw Finn's brother, Rhyne, sitting by the fountain with another girl. Three years ago Arriane Cratt touched her for the first time and she felt so filthy that she deserved to be used like that. It had hurt like Seneca's cold disregard. Deep down Annabel thought there was something wrong because she couldn't decide if she was crying over Seneca's icy tone, or the way he had forced her. _He fucked me over the table with people listening in the corridor, _she thought bitterly, _and if it had been anyone else, I wouldn't have cared. What does that make me?_ The girl had her answer but did not want to voice it. She looked down to see a copy of _Dermois__é _open on the desk. There was a picture of her thighs spread wide for the camera, acid green vines wrapped around to hold her that way. Humiliation surged hot inside. Angrily, she shut the magazine. She wanted to burn it. Then, under it, she recognised a sketch in Crane's neat hand. There was a sweeping curve of ink and measurements noted beside it. Annabel quickly placed the magazine back over it. She stumbled back and clutched her dress. Now, a real wave of fear rose in her for though Seneca like to drop little hints about the Games she knew he did not intend to show off the plans themselves. Annabel swallowed.

The girl clutched her dress close and tried to cloak herself in the tatters of her dignity. She forestalled another wave of angry tears until she reached the car. Then, even as she hid her face and let her dress fall away from her shoulders, she thought about what had a wingspan of thirty feet.

Her body was sore and her mind a tangle of anger and shame, but Annabel was called on a date that night. In the restaurant she heard her name blown about like trash, and though the patrons did not use the word, she put it in their mouths – _slut. _It burnt her. Sometimes she laughed hysterically but mostly she cried. She barely had time to sleep. With the wild look of salt and sea in her eye, Annabel had always been a popular victor. There was a waiting list by the time she turned fifteen, and Arriane Cratt had bid for her virginity. The pictures in the magazine brought it all back. Annabel had four, sometimes five dates a day and soon there was rope burn around her wrists. Often she was so tired that Portia would see to her new skin while she slept. And each time she flogged herself away and showered to go out again because she thought of Finn and the family she could never tell.

The Games passed in the background, and Annabel remembered only snatches. The lanky boy from District 9 tumbled shrieking from a ledge as he tried to reach for a spray of berries. His partner found Barra in the marsh and he did not even have to raise a hand to her. She fled and stumbled into a pool of acid. Barra turned away before she had even stopped screaming. The boy from 6, an unlikely and forgotten survivor, was crushed in a rock fall sent to make Fallon move closer to another tribute. On the sixth day, Fallon chased Maya from sunrise to sunset for she went lighter than he over the rocks. When he caught her, he hurled her off the mountainside like a broken doll.

There was just one moment that Annabel saw clearly among the rush of showers, cars, silken sheets and ropes. Crane made sure that she could see it. It was sunset on the seventh day, and the camera panned slowly over the rust-red rocks and the snow that clung to the highest slopes. Fallon sat with his face to the sunset. He was tired from the chase that had lasted all yesterday, but he had been well rewarded by his sponsors. Perhaps he tried to trick himself into thinking that the unfamiliar mountains were the Kellies, rising sharp behind the academy in Marble. The camera honed in on his face and Annabel felt a shiver of anticipation. Nobody wanted to watch a boy sit and enjoy the sunset. His stylists had done something to his face for he only had a dark shadow of stubble over his jaw. Fallon toyed with the rough spear he had made from a sapling snapped from the birch groves. He had not used it yet, but the sponsors liked the way it looked in his hands. When he tensed and stood slowly the camera slowly panned around so the audience could see as Fallon did. He looked into the sunset and shaded his eyes.

It looked like a bat, or a bird bigger than any had a right to be. And then it did not. Seneca Crane had been a little boy drawing dragons, and now his creation was not just of paper and ink. Its wingspan broke thirty feet, and flying with the sunset behind it, the creature was lined in fire. The look on Fallon's face said that he knew he would feel its teeth if he ran. And the dragon was glorious gold and jade. Even its teeth and claws were gilded.

It was an ugly fight, and long. The Capitol audiences dared not move, except to promise their sponsorship if the boy survived it. The dragon's roar cracked rock when Fallon shattered its forelimb with his mace. Its claws raked his shoulder in return. When he tore the fragile membrane of its wing, Fallon thought he had beaten it until he realised there was only a sheer drop behind him. The dragon crouched there and roared its anger, and it blocked the only way down the slope. Then, Fallon left his spear in its belly. The dragon's tail thrashed and its claws struck sparks off the rock. No cannon sounded for the death, but Fallon started to laugh. It was a harsh, wild sound. It would become one of the most iconic images of the games, but Fallon did not know that as he stood by the monster and the sunset on the red rocks. Then, he hoisted himself up to stand on its back. Before the sun set he was sent a parachute, and his shoulder stopped bleeding.

The next day, Barra prowled the marsh and found his way back to the tumble of rocks by the base of the mountains, but he was reluctant to make his final fight among them. Fallon stretched out his shoulder and started to move down, following the stream. The gaunt child of 8's factories quietly lay down among the rocks and did not wake. He had made the final three through no skill but being better at starving than most. His cannon signalled the finale was to begin soon. As Annabel watched, she thought of the bruises Barra left on Finn's neck, and the way Fallon had stood upon the dead dragon as if the arena was his. Her smile was eager and ugly.


End file.
